


Vague Shadows

by rowancas



Series: Laicee Bennett [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, OC, So Laicee is underage, So fair warning, but they obviously end up in a relationship, she is 16, sherlock is 28 i think in this, shes 17 by the end of the story, this is not smut based
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowancas/pseuds/rowancas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laicee Bennett had a less-than-perfect childhood. After her life fell apart, she was taken into 221b Baker Street by Mrs. Hudson, in hopes that she could have a normal life once again. That's when Laicee met the infamous Sherlock Holmes, and his assistant John Watson. Since that first meeting, Laicee's life has been anything but normal, and new surprises await her at every corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Troubled Nights

“You didn't sleep well,” said a voice half an inch away from my ear. I gave a start and knocked into the counter, dropping my spatula. Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed it before it hit the tile as I whirled to face him. 

Giving an irritable look, I snatched it back and turned my attention to the bacon. Sherlock leaned against the counter, his narrow frame motionless, staring at me with his unnerving clear eyes. I glanced up.

“Not really, no,” I told him, flipping the slices over and then wiping my hands on the dishtowel. I elbowed him out of my way and pulled open the fridge, looking for the eggs. I ignored the disembodied arms piled on one of the shelves; I’d stopped asking questions about those things long ago.

“It was a bad dream,” Sherlock continued, and I gave an irritable sigh, not in the mood to talk about this. “Your father, I’m presuming, seeing as you’re biting your lip again. This was a different dream, though. Something new about it.”

I tensed up my shoulders just a bit, and Sherlock noticed. His eyebrows perked up just a bit; he was like a dog catching onto a scent. My jaw tightened and I worked hard to control my breathing. 

"It's been eating away at you, bothering since you woke up at three. You couldn't fall back asleep-"

“I’m poisoning your eggs if you don’t shut up,” I threatened, only half-kidding. Sherlock leaned in a bit closer, and I looked up at him. Our eyes seemed to burn into each other as he analyzed my facial expression.

“Usually he doesn't reach the gun,” he murmured; my eyes narrowed.

“Sherlock,” I warned. His lip twitched, the next words on the tip of his tongue. I was on the verge of smacking him with the spatula when I heard shuffling coming down the stairs.

“Morning Laicee, Sherlock,” John mumbled, making his way into the kitchen. The tension broke between Sherlock and I; he leaned back against the counter and I began to scoop the food onto the plates. The kitchen was unusually silent as John dropped into his seat at the table, and I enjoyed being able to cook in peace. But Sherlock, however, wasn't finished. 

“This time, he did,” Sherlock mused.

“I swear it, I’m poisoning you,” I snapped, brandishing a fork in his direction as he sauntered into the living room. “I know where you keep the arsenic.”

“Cyanide’s much faster,” Sherlock informed me, and I glowered at the back of his head as I deposited John's plate on the table. “Third cupboard, second shelf.”

I grumbled profanities under my breath as I prepared John’s coffee for him.

“I’d ask you how your morning was going,” John began, trailing off with a bemused smile. I gave him a look as I handed the mug to him.

“One of these days,” I sighed, grabbing Sherlock’s plate and drink. John just smiled as he took a sip of coffee.

Sherlock had already planted himself in his usual chair, fingers pressed together in front of his face. He flicked his eyes up at me as I came up to him, handing down his plate.

“You look a mess,” he informed me, taking his plate. I had to strongly resist the urge to throw his tea into his face.

“And you look like the backside of a mule, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

I heard John splutter on his coffee; Sherlock’s lip twitched.

“You’re mad at me,” he stated as I began to walk away. I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a look.

“I’m not mad,” I told him, jogging down the stairs before he could reply.

I pushed open the door to my room and shut it softly, making for the bathroom. There was only an hour before school, and thanks to Sherlock keeping me up late last night I hadn’t showered before bed.

I grabbed some clean clothes and then shut myself in the bathroom, starting up the shower. I cleaned quickly, not wanting to be late to class again. Once I was acceptable, I got out and toweled off, pulling on a pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt.

“You’re upset, then,” Sherlock said from my desk as I stepped out of the bathroom. I just barely managed to stifle a scream as I gave another start, jumping back into the door frame. I winced, rubbing my hip resentfully as I glared at Sherlock.

“The door was locked for a reason,” I informed him, tossing my pajamas onto my bed as I passed by him.

“Irrelevant,” he said dismissively, turning around in the seat to watch me as I brushed out my hair. I met his gaze in my mirror, and sighed.

“I’m not upset with you,” I promised. “Irritated, maybe, but you always irritate me so that’s nothing new.”

“So you’re upset about something else,” Sherlock said; before I could defend myself, he launched into his explanation. “If you weren’t upset, you would have said so blatantly. But you specified your denial towards myself only, meaning that there’s something outside of myself upsetting you.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” I murmured, shaking out my brunette curls in hopes they’d dry faster. I snagged my backpack and headed for the door. Sherlock stood and began to follow me.

“It’s not John,” he muttered, more to himself than me. “A person in your classes, perhaps? You have anxiety about leaving for school.”

I ignored him the best I could, saying a quick hello to Ms. Hudson as I headed up to Sherlock’s flat, still being followed by his mumbling self.

“Or perhaps a problem with a professor,” he mused. I frowned as I pushed open the door. “A love affair, perhaps?”

“Sherlock!” I snarled, whirling around to glare at him. This time John gave a start, choking on a piece of bacon. He looked up incredulously at Sherlock.

“You were supposed to be at the store!” he accused; I grabbed an apple off the counter and grabbed a bottled water.

“I’ve got much more trivial things to handle,” Sherlock dismissed, still staring at me. I knew he had a hard time deciphering me sometimes. I’d grown very good at hiding certain things from him, and it drove him crazy. “Laicee’s upset, and I don’t know why.”

“I can imagine,” John muttered, sharing a look with me. I gave him a smile.

“I’ll be back later, keep him from blowing anything up, would you?”

“No promises,” John sighed as Sherlock settled himself in his chair to think. I took a bite of my apple as I traipsed out of the flat and onto the streets of London. The air was crisp, but the walk wasn’t too bad. I always enjoyed a little time to myself.

I’d been living with Ms. Hudson for going on three years, working as her live-in housekeeper. My job had been pretty mundane, seeing as I was the only other tenant and she preferred to clean her own room. Life was calm until Sherlock and John moved in a little more than a year ago.

Immediately, my world had gone up in a wave of confusion, frustration, and endless, busy nights dedicated to Sherlock’s cases. They preferred to keep me out of the work, saying it was dangerous, but more often than not I was needed to help the two of them with their experiments, and Sherlock said he liked having me sit in on the discussions.

But, thanks to that, I rarely got any sleep, and when I did it was disturbed by recurring nightmares. Having Sherlock’s interrogation instances all the time like that did nothing to help my frustration, so more often than not I arrived to school frazzled and moody.

I really only had a couple of good friends I talked to willingly. Most other people didn’t take the time with me, and those that did mostly found out they didn’t like me. I wasn’t a regular high school junior. I had a different life than them, and they couldn’t accept that.

Jeanette and Riley, my only two friends here, were waiting for me by the doors. I gave them both a tired smile, and Jeanette gave me a comforting hug.

“Rough morning again?” Riley asked, and I rolled my eyes as the three of us fell into step, headed for class.

“It always is,” I sighed, and he gave me an apologetic look. My life was chaos, and there was almost always one person to blame:

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Father Figure

It had started raining after lunch, and the weather still hadn’t let up by the time school was over with. My converse were soaked through, and my hair had gone from wild to uncontrollable, thanks to the insane wind. I’d planned to head straight home, but as always, something came up. As Jeanette and I hurried down the sidewalk, I reached out and pulled her to the side, ducking under an awning to avoid the direct downpour. 

“I’ve got to stop by the shop and get some things,” I told her over the howl of the storm. Sherlock apparently never made it to the store in the seven hours I’d been gone. "I'll catch you tomorrow-"

“I’ll go with you,” she offered, and I sighed to myself. I knew she only wanted to hang out with me because she fancied Sherlock; honestly, most girls at school did, either for his brains or his looks. Jeanette said he had dreamy eyes.

We slipped into the nearest shop, and I gathered up the things John had asked for as Jeanette followed me around. I stopped by the muffins. John had told me to pick out some I wanted. Blueberry was Sherlock’s favorite; I detested them, but I didn’t hesitate in grabbing them. Maybe muffins would deter him from his agonizing morning interrogations.

After paying, Jeanette and I raced the last few blocks to the apartment. I glanced at her as I pushed the door open.

“Do you want to stay and do homework?” I asked her, stepping inside. I knew the answer, but it still frustrated me when she shifted her eyes.

“Not really, I’ve got to get home, but I’ll help you upstairs with the groceries.”

“Thanks,” I sighed, kicking the door shut behind us. Some days, I didn’t know if she wanted to spend time with me, or hang around me in hopes of seeing Sherlock.

I gave Ms. Hudson a warm smile as we passed by, then led the way upstairs. John was seated at the desk typing away as Sherlock paced in front of the window.

“Hello Dr. Watson, hello Sherlock,” Jeanette said timidly, putting on an overly sweet voice. She kept her gaze locked on the pacing, brooding man as he ignored her existence.

“Afternoon,” John said, glancing up. "How've you been?"

I took the bag from Jeanette and passed into the kitchen, giving him an apologetic glance when she ignored his greeting.

“You had all day to go to the shop,” I nagged Sherlock, giving him a look as I sat the groceries down. At this, he stopped his pacing and looked up at me. I saw Jeanette frown; apparently she wasn't happy that her schoolgirl crush had acknowledged me first, not her.

“You were already out,” he informed me. “Much more convenient.”

“I was gone for seven hours,” I said. “It would have taken you ten minutes at most to walk over and get the milk.”

“Did you get muffins?” he asked; I rolled my eyes.

“I shouldn’t have,” I muttered, turning to look at Jeanette. “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“I’ve got to get going,” she informed me. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye, Sherlock.”

He had already gone back to his pacing, and he was once again oblivious to her. She all but stormed out of the flat, giving me a disgruntled glance on her way down the stairs. I turned away from the door, grumbling as I went back to the kitchen to put everything away.

Lightning illuminated the dim flat, and then a crack of thunder shook the walls. I flinched away from the window, grimacing as the sky continued to groan. I’d always been terrified of thunder and lightning; the only two people who knew were currently ten feet away, pretending not to notice my reaction. The first time Sherlock had pointed it out, I made sure they’d both keep their mouths shut about it.

“She does enjoy your company, Laicee,” Sherlock mused, wandering into the kitchen. I glanced up at him as I put the milk in the fridge, doing my best to avoid the box of severed feet.

“I know,” I shrugged. “It’s why I put up with her. It just gets old after a while, that’s all.”

Another roll of thunder swept through the flat, and I flinched again, then glowered at the carpet as I took off my backpack and began to dig out my homework. It was always embarrassing to react like that in front of someone. Sherlock strolled past me, oblivious; he glanced down as I pulled my binder out.

“Will you tell me why you were upset earlier?” he asked; I looked up at him and kept my gaze vacant.

“Nope,” I said curtly. His eyebrows twitched. “Will it bother you if I do my homework up here?”

“Your thought process helps me focus,” he said as he went back into the living room. I’d learned to take that as his way of saying it didn’t bother him. I settled onto the couch, leaning up against the arm and pulling my legs up, resting my binder on my knees.

Sherlock pulled out his violin; as another crack of thunder made me flinch, he began to play.

-x-

“Are you hungry Laicee?” John asked as he stood up from the desk, stretching and scratching his head. I’d slid down into a more comfortable position an hour ago, and hadn’t bothered moving. My math book and worksheet were strewn on top of me, and I was nibbling idly on my pencil.

At his words, I glanced at my phone for the first time in quite a while. It was nearly six, and the sky had blackened. I shoved my work off my lap and pushed myself up, running a hand through my curls.

“Yeah, sorry, I got distracted,” I said quickly, getting up and shaking the feeling back into my legs. Sherlock was in his usual chair, his brows drawn together and his fingers pressed to his lips; he was lost in his world of thought.

“I did too,” John assured me. “It’s Friday, why not go out and get something?”

“That sounds brilliant,” I admitted, grinning. “I’m feeling a bit lazy at the moment. What shall it be?”

“Well, with Sherlock off in his thoughts, we should probably bring something back,” John mused, pulling on his jacket. As I slipped my shoes on, I looked down at Sherlock.

“What are you in the mood for?” I asked; he was focused intently on a stain beside the couch, murmuring into his fingers. I rolled my eyes; if I got upset every time Sherlock ignored me (like Jeanette), I’d constantly be moping about.

“Right, well, I’m feeling fish and chips,” I told John, grabbing my cardigan as I followed him down the stairs. “Is that alright?”

“Sounds good,” John said, holding the door for me as I slipped outside. We fell into step, strolling along the damp London streets. I was glad the rain had let up; the night was cool, but not unbearable.

“How was school?” John asked as we walked.

“It was decent,” I said with a half smile. “You know, as decent as school could be.”

I glanced up at John as we walked, our conversation light. Last summer, I’d overheard Sherlock and John talking late one night. Among other things discussed, I heard John admit to Sherlock that he saw me as the daughter he never had (and probably never would). Sherlock had thought John was a nutter, but I quite enjoyed the thought of that. My own father had been less than loving, and John had always taken care of me in the short time he’d known me.

My mum killed herself when I was seven. The day before she took a gun to her mouth, she told my dad she was getting a divorce from him, and she’d take me with her. That night, she was gone.

My dad took it hard, and though I couldn’t blame him for being hurt, I could never forgive him for taking his pain out on me. It had started simple, a smack across the face for talking back, grabbing me roughly and pushing me down when I disobeyed. But then it got worse, and worse. I’d go to school with bruises and cuts; hand prints on my neck, tears in my eyes.

When I was thirteen, that’s when he lost it. He’d been waiting for me to come home, sitting in my room with a bottle of vodka in one hand and his pistol in the other. The same one my mom had killed herself with six years before. I tried to run the moment I saw him in the room. He dropped the bottle and grabbed hold of me instead, and I fought. I still have the scars on my arm from where my elbow caught his tooth.

We fell to the ground, and the gun skid from his reach. I scrambled for the door, screaming like a banshee. Holding onto me, he scrabbled for the pistol. I still remember the moment he grabbed the gun and flipped me over, the look in his dark green eyes as he pinned his arm across my throat and pressed the barrel to my temple…

It was the neighbor boy who heard my screams; he'd gotten his parents, and a minute later his father was wrestling my father off of me as his wife called the police. That’s when I was taken from him and put into the system. Ms. Hudson, an old friend of my mum’s, heard my story and took me in. She wouldn’t want Clara’s daughter lost to the foster care system when she had a perfectly empty flat and food to spare.

Not long after that, Sherlock and John had moved in, and life had been thrown into chaos. The good kind, though, that made my days interesting and put a smile on my face. I’d never told John that I knew how he saw me, and I’d never tell him I felt the same way. I looked up to him, and he took care of me.

That was all anyone really needed sometimes.


	3. Fish and Chips

“Hi Laicee!” came an overly excited voice from the counter as John and I walked into the small diner. I let out an almost inaudible sigh as I recognized Oliver, a freshman boy I’d known since we were in primary. He’d asked me out more times than I could keep track of.

My face flushed as John let out a snicker; father figure or not, he could still be an arse. I elbowed him in the ribs we reached the counter and gave Oliver a smile.

“Hey, Oliver,” I said, ignoring the suggestive nudging from John. “We’ll have two fish combos to go, and-“ I cut off, realizing we’d never asked Sherlock what he wanted. I pulled out my phone. “Two seconds,” I apologized.

_Fish combo alright for your dinner? LB_

“No problem, take as much time as you need,” Oliver assured, leaning across the counter. “So, Laicee, I get off at nine-“

John was red in the face from holding in his laughter; I all but dove on my phone when it went off.

_I want steak, medium well, fresh greens on the side and a hot cup of tea. SH_

“Make it three fish combos,” I sighed; a moment later, I got another text.

_Fish combo, why not. Seeing as my request won’t be honored, anyway. SH_

I rolled my eyes as Oliver rang us up. 

"Of course, anything for you Laicee. You look really nice, by the way."

"Er, thanks," I mumbled; Oliver gave me a wink and scampered off to fix our food. 

I gave John a dirty look as he giggled in amusement. 

“Shut it, would you?” I hissed, earning another giggle. 

“When’s the wedding?” he teased, and I smacked his arm. Oliver came back faster than I thought he would, our bag in hand and a slip of paper in the other. He handed the bag to John, muttering “that’ll be 13.50”, and then he turned to me. I raised a brow as he held out the slip of paper.

“Text me sometime, and we could go see a movie or something,” he offered, giving me what looked like an attempt at a flirtatious smile. Before I could reply, John took the piece of paper from him and slipped a couple of bills into his open hand.

“Keep the change,” he said, grabbing my arm and towing me out of there, leaving Oliver looking hopeful and confused. John pushed open the door for me; I grinned up at him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, stepping outside. I grimaced when I saw the weather. The rain had started up again, and the sky was beginning to rumble.

“He gets off at nine, you know,” he teased, leading me beneath the awning of the building next door to keep me dry. He sat the bag of food down beside me and flicked up his collar. “We’ll get a cab, I’m not in the mood to get soaked. I’ll be right back.”

I folded my arms over my chest, shivering beneath my thin cardigan. Sometimes, I really hated London weather. John jogged out into the rain, attempting to hail a taxi before the other freezing people around him got one first. I leaned back against the wall, giving the flashing sky disapproving looks.

A crack of thunder exploded suddenly above my head, and I flinched back into the brick. As I did so, a steel hand locked onto my upper arm and jerked me to the side. I didn’t even have the chance to scream before a hand was thrown over my mouth.

My captor held tight to me, dragging me back into the alleyway between the buildings. I struggled violently, trying to scream over the hand silencing me. I felt hot breath on my ear, and then a gruff male voice growled,

“Wallet!”

I nodded vigorously, willing to do anything to get released. The man threw me hard to the ground, slamming me into the turf. The second his hand came off my mouth, I screamed.

“JOHN!” I hollered, shoving to my feet. 

“Wallet!” the man snarled, coming between me and the exit of the alley. I lifted my fists, ready to fight, but he had been expecting that. He lifted a gun to my face, finger on the trigger. My knees went weak, and for half a moment it was my father in front of me. Without hesitation this time, I dug out my wallet with shaking hands and threw it to him. Keeping the gun pointed at me, he fished around my wallet, fingers fumbling in a hurry.

“JOHN!” I screamed again as the man continued to dig; my attacker looked up, his face pulled into a snarl.

“Scream again and I shoot!”

I put my hands up, flinching violently as more thunder exploded overhead. Tears stung my eyes; I was scared senseless. I was being mugged by a man pointing a gun to my face in the middle of a storm; it was as if Satan had rolled all my worst fears up into one moment.

A click rang out down the alleyway.

“Drop it,” John ordered, his own gun aimed at my attacker. The guy whipped around and froze. For half a second, he kept the gun aimed at me; without warning, he dropped my wallet and spun on the spot, taking off past me and disappearing over the alley wall.

“Laicee, my god, are you alright?” John asked, rushing forward and pulling me into a hug. I said nothing as I held onto him, my legs giving out; I slumped into him, too shaken for words. John pulled back and looked down at me. I was so upset I couldn’t even force myself to stop crying. He stooped and grabbed my wallet, wiping off the mud from the outside and handing it over to me. More thunder cracked, and I flinched down into his hold; John wrapped an arm around me and pulled me out of the alleyway.

Bystanders watched as John led me through the crowd, the cab forgotten. As the rain picked up, John slipped his coat off and wrapped it around me. In the back of my mind, I realized we’d left our dinner lying beneath the awning, but I really didn’t care at the moment.

“Lace,” John asked again. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking as I pulled the jacket tighter around me. I sounded like a child. I flinched with another bout of thunder, and John rubbed my arm soothingly.

By the time we reached the apartment, the rain had turned into another downpour, and the thunder had become constant. I was shaking so bad I could barely stand. John let us in quickly, and we shut the door, double locking it.

I was glad Ms. Hudson was out for the night; I didn’t want her to see me like this. John went up the stairs ahead of me, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, rounding the corner as I came into the living room. A mop of dark curls poked out from the kitchen, and a frown slid onto Sherlock’s face when he saw the state of me. He put down the magnifying glass and shut off the Bunsen burner, not breaking eye contact. I stood in the middle of their living room, sopping wet and bleeding, tears running down my soaked cheeks and a miserable expression on my face.

“What happened?” he asked in a very un-Sherlock like manner. John reappeared from the bathroom with the medical kit, meaning business. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen and cleared a spot on the table, then beckoned me over.

“Laicee was mugged,” John said, his voice tight and his face grim. Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched at his words; I came up beside the two of them, flinching at more thunder and silently cursing myself. I already looked pathetic enough; I didn’t need to be a crybaby over the storm.

John pulled his coat off my shoulders and tossed it to the floor, then undid my ripped and soaked cardigan, casting it aside. His expression softened when he looked back at me; I had to look absolutely pathetic. John led me to the table, and then helped me up. I rested my hands in my lap and stared in sad curiosity at my bloodied arm. There were still bits of asphalt in the injury, and I realized I was getting blood all over the table.

Sherlock came up to us, quietly taking all of me in as John began to clean up my ripped skin. He pressed a finger to his mouth, deep in his world of thought. I winced as the peroxide burned my wounds, and John muttered an apology.

“What did they take out of your wallet?” Sherlock asked, catching both of us off guard.

“How do you-“ John began; Sherlock had already launched into an explanation.

“You said she was mugged, but the only two things she would have been mugged for –her phone and her wallet- are both on her. Obviously, they didn’t do this just for a fright, so they must have taken something. The phone had nothing on it to take, but the wallet did. The question is-“

“What did he take?” I finished in a shaky voice, grabbing my wallet from my pocket and flipping it open. I thumbed through everything. My money was still there, along with my debit card and my other cards tucked inside the folds. The only thing missing from its spot was my school ID.

“Why take my ID?” I asked Sherlock; the peroxide burned sharper than it had before, and I winced. Sherlock began to pace in the small kitchen, weaving tediously around John and the table.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he asked, and both John and I sighed at him.

“If it were obvious, we wouldn’t be asking,” John informed Sherlock, and his clear green eyes locked onto me as he suddenly stopped pacing.

“Think of all your ID has on it,” he said. “Your name, your grade, your school… they needed information about you. Whoever attacked you is looking for you.”

At this, John stopped cleaning up my arm and looked over at Sherlock, a startled expression in his eyes. I looked between the two of them.

“Sherlock, our address is on her ID.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, his face grim. The three of us shared a look; whoever wanted me now knew exactly where to find me.

-x-

“I’ll stay here until you fall asleep,” John promised as I settled onto the couch. My arm was bandaged and healing, and the ibuprofen was doing wonders for my killer headache. John had insisted I stay up in the living room tonight, just as a precaution. I curled up onto my side and pulled my blanket tighter around me.

“Thank you,” I told him, giving him a sleepy smile. John smiled back, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze as he settled down in his chair, book in his hand. The TV was on, the show a quiet murmur in the background. The storm had calmed itself, and now only a gentle rain shower continued outside.

“Do you really think someone’s coming after me?” I asked John as I began to slip into unconsciousness. He didn’t answer me for a long while. When he finally spoke, I was nearly asleep and his words blended into my dream.

“I hope not Laicee. I pray that for once, Sherlock is wrong.”


	4. No One Likes Raisins

Sherlock was perched in his chair muttering at the TV when I finally woke up the next morning. I pushed myself into a sitting position, wincing as my arm brushed the couch.

“How many times do I have to say it? He can’t be the father, just _look_ at the way he crosses his legs,” Sherlock sighed, agitated at people he’d never even meet. I studied the show for a moment.

“Look at the kid’s nose, though. Definitely the same as the guys,” I put in, pulling my legs up to my chest and resting my chin on my knees.

“I told you earlier that noses are trivial right now,” he said, flicking his eyes over at me. I gave him an incredulous look.

“I’ve been asleep.”

“John, tell her about the noses, since she wasn’t paying attention,” Sherlock requested, waving his hand in the direction of John’s empty chair. I rolled my eyes and got to my feet, stretching cautiously. I was sore, but I could function pretty well.

“He’s gone, Sherlock,” I said, shuffling across the living room. “Are you hungry?”

I could hear excited screams rise up from the TV. Sherlock stood and gave the tellie a frustrated glance as he passed by.

“No one listens to me,” he complained, following me into the kitchen. “I said he was gay, and no one listened.”

“It would help if you talked to people that could actually hear you,” I pointed out. “Or, you know, people that are conscious and in the same room as you. Just some ideas. Now, are you hungry or not?”

“I don’t just speak to hear myself, you know,” he muttered, pacing around the table. I tightened my jaw. He drove me insane, sometimes. Okay, okay, most of the time.

“Sherlock.”

“I make pertinent comments that no one gives a second thought to, and people wonder why I hate them.”

“Sherlock, do you want-,” I began as he paced by me again, oblivious.

“It’s tiring, really, being ignored when all you want is a simple yes or no-“

“Sherlock Holmes!” I snapped, snagging the sleeve of his shirt and jerking him to a stop. He gave me an incredulously bewildered stare; I set my jaw.

“Do you want a muffin or not?”

“Yes, I’m starving,” he informed me. “Wasn’t it obvious?” 

I had to severely restrain myself from strangling him. I dropped my hold on him and elbowed my way to the counter. He, of course, followed me and watched me work. He had a habit of observing me when I prepared meals. He told me once that he found my cooking amusing, but honestly I figured he was somewhat worried that I would poison him sooner or later.

As I began to fry his bacon to go along with his muffin, I could feel him watching me intently. A tremor of surprise ran through me when I felt his touch on my upper arm. I looked over at him; his index finger traced a shape on my skin.

“What?” I asked, a little put off by the worried expression on his face.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively, dropping his hand. I gave him a look.

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” I threatened as I pulled open the cupboard to grab the plates. Sherlock began to pace around the table again, giving me a ghost of a smile as he flicked his eyes down at me. All traces of his caring nature had been wiped away. I could have stabbed him, I swore it.

“Bleedin’ Christ, Sherlock, how many times do I need to remind you of my height?” I snapped, glowering at the dishware two shelves too high. The few times he was forced to help with household chores, he did something like this.

“Every day, apparently,” he said off-hand as he passed by me again. I stared after him.

“Are you gonna- no, okay, fine,” I growled, climbing up onto the counter; Sherlock paused his steps to watch me, but as always, he didn't offer to help. “Let the short, injured, uncoordinated girl scramble onto the furniture to get the glass plates while the six-foot guy with freakish long arms walks around. Brilliant.”

I balanced the plates in one hand and then twisted myself around to set them on the counter. I somehow managed to get back on my feet without any serious injury, and Sherlock began to move around again.

I put his muffin and bacon on a plate, then scooted his lab equipment over to make a spot for us to eat as he stopped his pacing. He observed the muffin as he sank into his chair; I poured a bowl of cereal for myself.

“It’s blueberry,” he stated; I gave him a sarcastic smile.

“Your observation skills are absolutely mind-blowing,” I praised, and his eyebrows twitched at me. I sat down across from him as he stared at his muffin, lifting my spoon for a bite.

“You don’t like blueberries.”

“No, I don’t,” I confirmed, pausing the spoon in mid air as Sherlock frowned. “But you do. Now eat your muffin.”

“Why didn’t you get muffins you like?”

“Because your favorite muffin is blueberry, and you eat them more than me,” I informed him, trying again to take a bite.

“What muffins do you eat, then?” he mused, poking at his bacon instead of eating it. I put my spoon back down with a sigh.

“Raisin. I eat raisin muffins.”

“No one likes raisins," he snorted, a distasteful frown coming onto his face as if he'd just smelt something horrible.

“ _I_ like raisins.”

“So _you’re_ the reason they keep making those god-forsaken muffins,” he accused me, as if I’d just committed high treason.

“I’m pretty sure there are more people that like raisin muffins.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re lying.”

“Just eat, Sherlock,” I sighed; when he sat completely unmoving, I gave him a frustrated frown.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Because someone’s at the door,” he informed me, standing at the exact moment I heard Mrs. Hudson open the front door. Now that Sherlock was distracted, I began to eat my cereal. Before Sherlock even reached the living room, Inspector Lestrade pushed his way in, followed by his two constant companions, Donovan and Anderson.

"Morning detective inspector," I said, leaning back to give Lestrade a smile. He gave a tired smile back as Sherlock got between them and the kitchen. 

“Anderson, get out. We’re attempting to enjoy a meal and your face is severely disrupting the experience,” Sherlock snapped. I rolled my eyes as Anderson drew himself up, glowering at Sherlock.

“I’m here on official business,” he informed him, and I saw Sherlock’s lips twist up in his amused smirk as he rounded to face me, keeping his back to the others.

“I’ve told Lestrade already that I’ve got no interest in the multiple homicide case-“

“I’m not here to beg again, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, unnervingly serious. Sherlock stopped his pacing and glanced over his shoulder. “I’m here by an… unusual request. Your presence has been demanded on a new case. As well, we've got John at the station already, and I’m here to take Laicee into protective custody.”

“What?” The two of us spluttered; I dropped my spoon as Sherlock completely turned around.

“I've been _demanded_?” he asked; I could here the intrigue in his voice. Lestrade nodded as Anderson came towards me. I got to my feet immediately, giving him a wary look.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell us what’s going on,” I informed him, backing up and brandishing my spoon. Anderson gave me an aggravated sigh.

“You’re as bad as Sherlock,” he informed me. “It’s protocol, I’ve got to take you-“

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock and I said at the same moment; when I looked up at him, surprised, Anderson took use of my distraction and moved forward, grabbing my upper arm. I winced when he tightened down on my bruise and pulled me after him. Sherlock took two long strides and put his hand on Anderson’s shoulder, shoving him back off me.

Anderson moved to grab me again; Sherlock slid between us and gave him a warning glare. Anderson looked helplessly at Lestrade while Donovan sighed heavily.

“Sherlock, she has to come with us-“

“Tell me why, and I’ll think about it,” he said, not moving out from in front of me. After exchanging heated frowns, Lestrade reached into his bag and pulled out two pictures, handing them to Sherlock. The moment he looked at them, Sherlock tensed up.

I leaned around his arm, staring down at the photos. My breath caught in my throat.

“I told you, it was an unusual request,” Lestrade began.

“It’s not just a request,” Sherlock said, his voice alarmingly quiet. “It’s a warning.”

I swallowed hard, grabbing a hold of Sherlock’s arm to steady me. A man, mid-twenties, was the center of one picture. A younger girl was in the other. Both were hanging, their eyes staring at the camera, unseeing. On each of their chests, one word was written.

Across the man’s chest, WATSON was written in blood. BENNETT was written on the girl.


	5. Interrogations

“Who is she?” Donovan asked John, handing him a cup of coffee. “Sherlock seemed adamant about staying with her. Is she a relative?”

“She’s a friend of Mrs. Hudson,” he explained, taking a sip as they headed back into the observation room. “Sherlock and I sort of… watch out for her, if you will." 

It had been two hours already, and John was still in the dark. He knew about the pictures, of course. The ‘message for Sherlock’, but past that, he knew nothing. The three of them had been separated since Sherlock and Laicee arrived; Sherlock was discussing things with Lestrade, and Donovan had finished questioning John a while ago. All that was left was Laicee, who was being as uncooperative as John had predicted. Her dislike for Anderson was almost as great as Sherlock’s, and she was in a defiant mood.

“Right,” Donovan laughed; when John looked at her, she gave him an exasperated smile and corrected herself. “I’m sure you do, I’m not doubting that. But we both know Sherlock. He doesn’t watch out for people.”

“He’s not as heartless as you assume,” John said, stepping inside the observation room. “He’s got a soft spot for Laicee, and he keeps his eye on her.”

As the door shut, the aggravated voice of Anderson rose up through the one-way glass. John and Donovan looked over at the very unsuccessful interrogation of Laicee. She sat in the middle of the room, one leg folded beneath her on the wooden chair, the other pulled to her chest. She had the ghost of a smirk on her face as she watched Anderson pace angrily.

“Your attacker was just over six foot,“ Anderson began again, pausing in front of Laicee. “Pale complexion, black hair-“

“Actually, Sherlock’s hair is dark brown. Do your research.”

John couldn’t smother the smile that crept onto his face at Anderson’s expression.

“So you’re admitting Sherlock was the one who attacked you?”

“I’m confirming that you’re trying to pin evidence on him. It’s completely different,” she corrected, giving him a smile. Anderson let out an aggravated sigh and came forward. He put his hands on the chair arms and leaned forward, his face inches from Laicee’s.

“You’re getting dangerously close to pissing me off,” she informed him, narrowing her eyes.

“I think it’s highly suspicious that you were attacked, injured, and emotionally distressed, and neither Sherlock nor John felt the need to contact the police,” he growled; John began to move for the door, but Donovan put her hand on his arm.

“I’m not pleased with how this is going,” John began, his voice sparking with displeasure.

“Why not? I’m quite enjoying his discomfort,” Sherlock mused, strolling in ahead of Lestrade, his eyes glinting as he watched the scene unfold.

“You know what I think, Anderson?” Laicee began, shoving him back away from the chair as she got to her feet. “I think it’s ‘highly suspicious’ that you’re so keen on pinning Sherlock to this case with nothing more to go on than your severe dislike of him.”

She began to advance on him, and he began to back up, giving her a wary look.

“I think it’s highly coincidental that you happen to be about six foot yourself,” she said, her green eyes glinting. “Dark hair, left handed like my attacker… It’s funny, I can almost picture you in the alley. Maybe I should be checking your own wallet for my ID-“

“What are you getting at?” Anderson snarled; his back hit the wall. Laicee stood on the tips of her toes, her face an inch from him, her eyes dangerously narrowed.

“What I’m getting at, Anderson, is that before you start trying to turn things around on Sherlock, you should figure out who you’re dealing with.”

“Donovan!” Anderson shouted the same moment Laicee shouted “Sherlock!”.

Lestrade buzzed open the door. Anderson whirled around and stormed out, his face bright red and his eyes dangerous. He shoved past John and stopped in front of Lestrade.

“She is out of control! Turning it around on me, harassing me like that! That conniving little wench-“

“Watch your mouth,” John warned, coming up to Anderson as Laicee exited the interrogation room. Her eyes were trained on Anderson’s back, a gleam of distrust in her expression. Sherlock glanced down at her, and she looked up. Sherlock’s face darkened; he lifted one eyebrow in question, and Laicee tightened her jaw. Sherlock turned and slowly looked over at the man he detested.

“Anderson,” he snapped; Anderson glanced back. “Let’s see your wallet.”

“What?” John asked as Donovan, Lestrade, and Anderson shared a look. “Sherlock, she was kidding-“

“I was,” Laicee agreed, not moving her eyes from Anderson. “I said it as a joke, but he reacted differently than he should have. He turned slightly to the left, protecting his back pocket, where his wallet is. He’s hiding something.”

“Show us,” Sherlock demanded. Anderson began to advance on Laicee.

“I’ve had enough of your attacks,” he snapped. “You’d better start watching what you say-“

Sherlock put his arm out in front of Laicee, keeping her back away from him. Donovan and Lestrade exchanged a surprised glance; Sherlock was protecting her?

“Show us the wallet or I’ll get it myself,” he threatened; Anderson opened his mouth to argue.

“Show them,” Lestrade said quietly; all eyes turned to him. He nodded to Anderson; he reached back and retrieved the leather pouch. Slowly, he opened the wallet, and from the middle fold, he produced Laicee’s ID.

Several things happened at once.

Sherlock wrapped his outstretched arm around Laicee’s waist, pulling her behind him as John pressed his shoulder to Sherlock’s, keeping her safely out of Anderson’s view. Anderson dropped the ID and backed away from the two men when he saw the expressions on their faces. Donovan’s hand fell to her gun, just in case, and Lestrade threw his hands up, trying to get order.

“Anderson didn’t attack Laicee!” he assured, waiving Donovan down and trying to cool the fury on John and Sherlock’s faces. “It was confiscated from a man that turned himself in this morning. He confessed to the murder of Michael Harper and Denise Richards-“

“The man and woman from the pictures,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes, precisely. He said he needed them to convey something that only brilliant minds would get. It was his job to find two suitable matches for the message he was instructed to leave.”

“That’s why they looked like us, or at least resembled us vaguely. Watson and Bennett,” John put in, and Lestrade nodded again.

“He said once we received the request, it was time for him to be turned in. He said the game could begin now that all the players know the stakes.”

“Like I said,” Sherlock repeated. “It was a request and a message. A request to play the game, and the message of what’s at stake, if I decline or lose.”

“You know who left the message, don’t you?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded slowly. He turned his eyes to Anderson.

“Naturally, you assumed I was the one setting up the game, so you wanted to manipulate Laicee into giving you what you wanted.”

Anderson gave a curt nod, and Sherlock’s lip twisted up.

“And how’d that work for you?”

Anderson narrowed his eyes, and Laicee smothered her laughter.

“No, no, I’m not playing games with myself,” Sherlock said, moving away from Laicee and John as he began to pace. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor as he moved. “He’s been much too dormant for the promise he made me. I should have realized right away what was going on.”

“Who, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock looked up, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

“Moriarty.”

-x-

“Sherlock,” Lestrade called, snagging the back of Sherlock’s jacket and pulling him to a stop. “I need to ask you something rather important.”

Sherlock paused and turned to look over at the inspector. He had a troubling expression on his face, and Sherlock frowned.

“I need to be assured that Laicee is safe at Baker Street,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low. “There’s nothing I can do about John, but if I don’t truly believe Laicee will be alright living with the two of you, I’ll be forced to take her out of there.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, giving Lestrade an incredulous look.

“She’s underage, and if she’s not safe, I’ll be taking her out of the flat and putting her into protective custody.”

“You can’t do that,” Sherlock began, but Lestrade held up his hand and gave him a warning look.

“I can, and I will, if I don’t truly believe she’ll be okay.”

Sherlock averted his eyes for a moment, and his gaze landed on his flatmates. John and Laicee were leaning against the counter, chatting idly with Donovan. Laicee glanced to the side, and her eyes caught his. A secretive smile crept onto her lips, and she reached into her sleeve, pulling out a laminated card.

Anderson was typed in bold across the front, and Anderson’s sneering face was pictured on the side. With a wink, she slipped it back into her sleeve as Anderson stormed past the lot, muttering something about things disappearing. Sherlock chuckled softly, then turned back to Lestrade. He gave him a nod and said quietly,

“I will keep her safe.”


	6. Study Session

“Is it alright if Oliver comes over?” I asked as I jogged up the stairs. Sherlock didn’t even look back at me, his eyes trained out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. John and Lestrade, who were both on the couch, glanced up.

“Not at all, so long as you’re not too loud. We’re on a new case,” John said, standing up.

“We just have some studying to do,” I explained. “We’ll keep it down, promise.”

I walked over and gave him a hug, then smiled down at Lestrade.

“Laicee, good to see you,” he said, getting up and giving me a brief side-hug. “School is well?”

“As well as it can be,” I joked, tossing my backpack down the stairs as I went into the fridge.

I hadn’t seen Oliver for a while. He hadn’t been in math, and he hadn’t been at work. We always studied for the math tests together, and when he’d texted me asking to come over, I’d been relieved to hear he was still around. I’d just poured myself a glass of tea when I heard the doorbell.

“Quiet!” Sherlock shouted, startling the three of us and making me spill tea on myself. I dug an ice cube out of my cup and flung it at Sherlock as I headed downstairs; he glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at me.

Ignoring him, I pulled open the door and gave Oliver a smile, but my expression faltered when I saw his face. His bright blue eyes were dark and bloodshot, and his face looked worn. He shoved his way in and slammed the door behind him.

“Quiet!” Sherlock hollered again; I glowered up the stairs.

“I’ve got more ice, and I’m not afraid to throw it!” I threatened.

“With your poor aim, that’s hardly cause or worry,” he mused; I muttered a few choice words as I turned back to Oliver, picking up my bag.

“Sherlock’s here?” he asked, his voice hard and very un-Oliver. I nodded as I led the way into my room, a little put off by his behavior.

“Yeah, with John and Detective Lestrade,” I told him, flicking on the light and dropping down onto my bed.

He stood in my doorway, frowning at me; I patted the bed beside me.

“You okay?” I asked; he gave me a dirty look and came forward, sitting down hesitantly on my bed. “You’ve been out of the loop for a while, and you seem-“

“What do I seem?” he demanded, catching me off guard.

“A little defensive,” I murmured, scooting back to give us room. I pulled out my book and opened it up. “If you don’t want to study-“

“I want to,” he insisted, a little more intense than he needed to be. Without warning, Oliver reached forward and pushed my book aside. “I want to spend time with you.”

I sighed and looked up at him; I swallowed hard. Oliver had an intense, almost unsettling gleam in his eyes as he stared at me. His eyes flicked back and forth as he held my gaze. I leaned back a bit as I cracked open the book. 

Oliver didn't speak once as I read the problem out loud, and didn't move as I started to write it out. For a moment, I lost myself in the numbers. I dove into trying to solve it, and then Oliver's hand came forward and rested on my thigh. I jumped a bit, pulling back from him; when we locked eyes, I could see the turmoil on his face.

“This is just a study session,” I said softly. “I thought you knew how I felt about you-“

“I can change that, though,” he insisted, moving closer again. I put my hand on my shoulder. I could feel him trembling, shivering lightly, almost unable to hold still. I frowned.

“Are you okay?”

“Now that I’m with you, I’m fine,” he murmured, putting his hand on mine and coming even closer; his legs started to overlap mine. He reached out and put his other hand on my waist. His eyes softened, and some of the angst seemed to leave his face as he held onto me. He began to lean forward, and as I tried to pull back, his hand tightened on my waist. 

“Oliver-“ I started, beginning to panic.

“Laicee, I need your laptop!” Sherlock hollered down the stairs, startling both of us. We jumped apart, and I was glad to be out of his hold. Oliver stared at me as I stood up fast.

“I’ll be back, Sherlock needs me,” I said quickly, grabbing up my laptop. Oliver’s gaze hardened again as he glared after me; I ran up the stairs, trying to calm myself down.

“You have your own laptop, _and _John’s laptop,” I reminded him. “What do you need mine for?”__

__“He’s been experimenting,” John sighed, holding up his own half-burned half-melted laptop. I pulled back as Sherlock reached for mine._ _

__“Don’t you dare do anything to it,” I warned, forcing my voice to be stern even though it wavered just a bit; Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his hand out._ _

__“Yes, yes, alright,” he sighed, and I reluctantly handed it to him. As I did, Sherlock’s glanced at me, and his eyes narrowed. He stared at me, and I frowned. Sherlock sat my laptop down, and turned to face me._ _

__“What?” I asked, a little unnerved._ _

__“Something’s happened,” he guessed; John and Lestrade looked up at me now, but I did my best to keep my expression blank._ _

__“Why do you say that?”_ _

__“Your eyes give away more than you want them to,” he told me, reaching out and grabbing my wrist. “Your pulse is irregular. You’re upset and…” his eyebrows drew together. “Uneasy?”_ _

__“I’m fine-“ I began as Sherlock’s eyes snapped up._ _

__“What the hell is your problem?” Oliver shouted from the doorway; I nearly jumped out of my skin, breaking away from Sherlock. John and Lestrade stood, looking warily at Oliver._ _

__“What’s gotten into you?” I asked; his eyes fell on me, and I stopped talking. The look in his eyes was enough to shut me up._ _

__“We were in the middle of something,” he growled at Sherlock; I frowned._ _

__“Studying can wait, Sherlock needed-“_ _

__“Sherlock this, Sherlock that,” he snapped. “He doesn’t own you, Laicee! You’re not his property!”_ _

__“I never said he did-“ I began, feeling a little more than put off._ _

__“You’re mine!” he snapped, and everyone in the room fell into stunned silence; the fear slid off of me, replaced with irritation and indignation_ _

__“Oh forget that,” I growled, storming forward. “Oliver, I’m not _anyone’s_ property! I thought I made it very clear to you that I only see you as a friend-“_ _

__“That’s Sherlock talking! He’s making you say that!” he cried, and I stopped in front of him, incredulous. Oliver’s eyes were wild as he stared at me, almost possessive._ _

__“Oliver, I think it’s best if you leave-“_ _

__Oliver grabbed my arms, holding me tight._ _

__“Oliver!” I exclaimed, trying to pull back. Lestrade and John both made towards me as Oliver tightened his grip._ _

__“I’m not leaving you, I’ll never leave you,” he insisted, his fingers tightening painfully._ _

__“Let her go, kid. Let’s calm down,” Lestrade urged, coming towards us. Oliver’s eyes burned into mine._ _

__“Don’t you see, Laicee? He’s got his claws in you-“_ _

__“Let her go,” Sherlock said; at the sound of his voice, Oliver reacted. His hands tightened so powerfully on me I gasped in pain. His eyes widened, and rage burning through his gaze. Without warning, he threw me to the side. I hit the end table and fell to the ground._ _

__“I’ve had enough of your bullshit-“ Oliver growled, advancing on Sherlock as John raced forward to help me up. Lestrade came up behind Oliver and grabbed hold of him, pulling him back._ _

__“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” Lestrade said roughly, pulling him backwards towards the stairs. Lestrade looked over at me as he began to reach for his cuffs; I shook my head slightly, and he nodded. “As a favor, I won’t take you in. But keep away from here, and learn to keep your hands to yourself.”_ _

__“Just keep her away from Sherlock, and we won’t have any problems,” Oliver snarled as the two of them stumbled down the stairs awkwardly. John immediately began to check me over. He pulled the sleeves of my shirt up and studied my arms. I could see they’d reddened, but nothing worse than that._ _

__“Is your hip okay?” John asked; I pulled my shirt up in back and turned, showing him where I’d hit. It was sore, but not bad._ _

__“It’ll bruise, but I think you’re fine,” he said, relieved; Lestrade slammed the door and came back upstairs, giving me an uneasy look. I sighed and scratched the back of my neck._ _

__“I’m sorry,” I told them all, giving a small, apologetic smile. John rubbed my shoulder as Lestrade crossed his arm._ _

__“Is he usually like that?” he asked._ _

__“No, I promise, this was really unlike him,” I sighed, shaking my head. “He was acting weird downstairs, and then this happened…”_ _

__“Keep away from him for a bit, yeah?” Lestrade asked, settling back down on the couch, and I nodded. As I turned to go back downstairs and give them peace and quiet to work, I felt slender fingers wrap around my wrist and gently tug me to a stop._ _

__“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his clear eyes burning into me."Truly?"_ _

__“I will be,” I promised him, and the corner of his lip twisted up. “Tea?”_ _

__“Please,” he agreed, dropping my wrist as I headed into the kitchen. As I began to boil the water, I glanced out the window, and my stomach knotted. Oliver stood on the corner of the street, staring into the flat, his eyes locking onto me. I saw a smile creep onto his lips as he turned and disappeared down the street._ _

__[b]-x-[/b]_ _

__“If you want her, you have to kill Sherlock,” Moriarty hissed in Oliver’s ear as he played the doctored recording over and over again. Just taping the conversation in 221B for an hour had given him more than enough to work with._ _

__Laicee’s voice repeated itself, the words patched together to feed Oliver lies._ _

___I love you Oliver. I love you, but Sherlock won’t let us be together. Love me, Oliver. I love you._ _ _

__“She loves me,” he breathed, wincing as the needle slid into his arm. The combination of drugs Moriarty was feeding him was slowly driving him insane, warping his reality and judgment and tricking him into believing the lies fed to him._ _

__“Sherlock has her trapped,” he hissed. “Help me destroy Sherlock, and she can be with you forever.”_ _

___I love you Oliver._ _ _

__“She loves me,” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His vision swam with false images, pictures of Sherlock attacking Laicee, thoughts of her falling in love with him. He was going mad. The drugs altered his perception, helping him believe what Moriarty told him, heping turn him against Sherlock._ _

__“You almost had her today,” Moriarty promised. “You were so close, but Sherlock stopped you. She wanted you, and he kept her away from you.”_ _

__“Sherlock,” Oliver snarled, rolling his head to the side to look up at Moriarty; he nodded, a wicked grin spreading over his face._ _

__“Take Laicee and kill Sherlock,” he urged, putting the last of the hallucinogens into Oliver’s system. The boys’ eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness. His lips continued to murmur the words that had been burned into his mind._ _

__“Kill Sherlock. Kill Sherlock. _Kill. Sherlock._ "_ _


	7. Sickness

The tea was growing cold.

The toast had gone cold, John was going to be late for work, and Sherlock still wasn’t awake. It was uncharacteristic of him to sleep at all, and when he did, it was only for a few hours.

“What’s keeping him, d’you think?” I asked John, knotting his tie and straightening it for him as he finished off his breakfast. I grabbed his coat and helped him into it as he grabbed his case.

“I’ve no idea, honestly. I’ll check in on him before I leave, but you need to get ready for school,” he urged, giving me a smile as I handed him his lunch. I checked the time; soon I’d be running late too. I grabbed my bagel and jogged downstairs, glad I’d already showered.

I changed fast, pulling on my jeans, converse, and –after a quick glance out the window- a simple long-sleeved tee. I called it good enough and hurried back upstairs; when I ran into John in the kitchen, I was more than surprised.

“You should have left by now,” I said, concerned. John sighed; he had out the thermometer and a bottle of aspirin. I frowned.

“Sherlock’s got the flu,” he said, looking troubled. “His fever’s pretty high, and he’s not looking that well. He gets delusional when he’s sick, and I don’t think it’s safe to leave him alone.”

“You can’t miss work,” I argued, dropping my bag. “I’ll keep an eye on him today.”

“Laicee, you’ve got school. I can’t keep you out-“

“I can have Jeanette grab my homework, and I’ll borrow notes from Riley. Me missing school isn’t as bad as you missing work. Your patients need you, and we need the money.”

John eyed me, a bit skeptical. I knew he wouldn’t want me missing school, but I really wasn’t that troubled over it. John checked his watch and sighed; he was already a couple minutes late. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head and then turned to me.

“Fine, fine, here,” he said, holding out the thermometer. “Check him every hour or so. If his fever gets worse, call me. Keep him cool with a damp towel. Try to keep him hydrated, but he needs his sleep-“

“John, I’ve got it,” I told him with a smile, starting to push him out the door. “I’ll keep him safe. Promise. Now go on, you’re late and they need you.”

“Thank you, Laicee, truly. Good luck, and call me-“

“Go, John!” I urged, and after giving me a parting smile, he hurried down the street. I shut the door and hurried back up to the flat. I could hear Sherlock mumbling in his room, so I grabbed the towel and a bowl of cool water, and went to check on him. He was sprawled on the bed, tangled in his sheets. His damp curls were matted to his head, and his usually pale physique was lighter than it should have been, save the sickly flush in his cheeks. I put my supplies down and went to his bed.

Carefully, I untangled Sherlock from his covers. He was heavy, but not unbearable; I managed to maneuver him into a more normal position, and then tucked him in. I pulled the bucket to the bed and sat by his side. Wiping the curls back from his face, I wrung out the cloth and placed it on his burning forehead.

Sherlock’s lids flickered open, and he stared at me. His clear green eyes were bloodshot, and they didn’t look entirely focused.

“Lace…?” he mumbled, twitching his nose and looking around us. “What’re.. this is.. why?”

“You’re sick,” I told him, wiping his face with the cloth and then dipping it back in the water. I folded it neatly and then placed it back above his brows. “You need to rest today, okay?”

He didn’t answer me; instead, he sat up halfway and looked over my shoulder. He gave a salute, winked, and then dropped back onto his pillows, rolling onto his side and facing away from me. After a startling glance behind me to confirm nothing was there, I sighed and fished the rag out from under his head. John wasn’t kidding about the delusional part. As I wet the rag and began to wipe his brow, he reached up and grabbed hold of my hand. His cool, slender fingers ran over mine as he turned to look over his shoulder.

“Milk?” he asked, licking his lips and looking back up at me. I gave him a smile. When he wasn’t being an arrogant sod, he could be mildly adorable. I pulled my hand back and stood up, leaving the cloth on his forehead.

“Of course, be right back.”

I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed his mug, pouring the milk and then sticking the cup in the microwave. I’d just started the time when I heard an unsteady shuffling behind me. Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, looking overly disoriented. He was in a thin cotton shirt and a pair of boxers; he’d attempted to put his bathrobe on, but it hung lazily from his arms and trailed behind him instead.

“Sherlock, no, go back to bed,” I sighed; he swayed ominously, and I hurried forward. What good I’d be supporting him, I didn’t know. I was a whopping 5’2”, and Sherlock stood just over six feet. I wrapped an arm around his waist and used my entire upper body to keep him stable as he slumped down.

“Couch,” he mumbled, and I sighed. I couldn’t turn him around and drag him back to the room, so the couch it was. I struggled forward, pulling Sherlock with me. He was lucky I was relatively strong, or else we’d both be on the floor. I positioned him in front of the couch and then attempted to set him down gently.

He dropped down onto the cushions and kept his hold on me; I let out a squeak of surprise as Sherlock yanked me down onto the couch. My back fell across his lap, and he draped his arms over my waist and stomach. I gave him a look, trying to keep the tint of pink from my cheeks.

“Sherlock, I need to get your milk.”

“I’m cold, you’re warm. Stop moving,” he mumbled, dropping his head back on the couch. I sighed and started to struggle from his grip. For being sick and weak with the flu, he had a pretty strong hold. The microwave went off just as I extracted myself from Sherlock’s lap.

“You’re a terrible blanket,” he muttered. “Don’t make it your day job.”

“Sod,” I told him, straightening my shirt as I retrieved his milk. I stirred in a bit of honey, just like he preferred. I sat beside him this time and held the cup out to him. He took a sip, and smiled a bit.

“You remembered the honey,” he noted as I propped my feet up on the coffee table. “You do nice things for me.”

I shrugged and grabbed the remote, turning the tellie on.

“I try,” I told him. “Do you want to watch something?”

“No, really,” he said; his voice was heavy from the sickness, and I could tell he wasn’t all quite there. This was extremely uncharacteristic of him; I glanced up, and was surprised to see his eyes locked on me.

“Well, you’re not feeling well-“

“Not just the-“ he paused and frowned, then waved his hand around him. “Not just the _this_. I mean.. the everything. I’m not nice. I’m a lot of the opposite. But you? No. You buy me blueberry muffins.”

I let a small smile come onto my face as I turned back to the tellie.

“Drink your milk, Sherlock.”

“And I never buy you raisin ones,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. I couldn’t look at him, because my face was most certainly a vibrant shade of pink. “A mystery, perhaps.”

“What’s a mystery?”

“I want to watch one.”

“Oh, right. Right. Any requests?” I asked, pushing myself up.

“Nothing dull,” he ordered, leaning his head back on the couch as he took a large gulp of milk. I rolled my eyes, knowing I’d just been given an impossible order.

“If you ruin the ending I’m hiding your skull for a month,” I threatened, popping in one of the few mysteries neither Sherlock nor I had seen yet. Honestly, I hated watching movies with him. He always unraveled the plot right at the beginning, and I was left to sit through two hours of screenplay while Sherlock shouted at the characters.

But, seeing as he was sick, I’d oblige. I made to sit in John’s chair, leaving Sherlock to the couch, but he patted the seat beside him. I glanced over, trying to keep my cheeks from flushing. What was wrong with me today?

“Why don’t you stretch out? You need to rest,” I offered.

“It’s easier to talk to you if you’re beside me,” he said simply, patting the cushion again. I paused for a moment, but slowly sat beside him. The movie had started, and I could see Sherlock’s unfocused eyes centered on the show. His lips began to move swiftly, almost unnoticeably. He was already piecing together the movie.

“I’m serious, don’t ruin the ending.”

“It’s obvious, though. Transparent,” he murmured, sliding down a bit in his seat. I gently eased the mug from his hands and sat it on the coffee table. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and began to mutter to himself (or possibly me, but I was attempting to tune him out). About halfway through the movie, I realized Sherlock’s jumble of words had died out. I glanced over, and a small smile crept onto my lips. He’d passed out, slumped on the arm of the couch.

I shut the movie off and stood, stretching. I shook his shoulder gently, and his eyes fluttered open slowly. I eased him into a sitting position, then helped him stand.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I said softly, wrapping my arm around his lean body as he got a grip on my shoulders. I led him down the hall, nudging his door open with my foot.

“Why…” he began as I settled him on his mattress. I pulled his robe off and hung it by his bed as he slumped down onto his pillows. “You are so kind to me. Why?”

“Sherlock, you’ve got to rest-“

“Answer me, then I’ll rest,” he offered, twitching his nose. I gave him a look, then sighed. He most likely wouldn’t remember most of this when he woke up, so I took a chance.

“Because even though you say don’t have friends, I do, and I consider you one of my _best_ friends,” I told him softly, pulling the covers up around him as he shivered slightly. “I care about you. You mean a lot to me, and friends take care of one another. Now come on, enough chatting. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock stared at me as his lids began to droop again. He reached out his hand and took mine again. I swallowed hard as my heart sped up just a bit. A small, almost miniscule smile flickered onto his face.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he murmured, nearly half asleep. I smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Yeah, I’ll be here. Promise.”

I sat next to him, my hand in his, until his grip slackened and his breathing fell steady. He began to snore softly, and I took that as my cue. Pulling my hand free, I stood up, giving one last glance at Sherlock to make sure he was set for a while.

As I shut his door, I heard his phone go off from the living room. At first I discarded it; Sherlock could check it when he woke up. But by the time I reached the kitchen it had gone off twice more, and I grew concerned.

I followed the insistent beeping to Sherlock’s coat and fished the phone out, checking to see who the messages were from. He had several messages from Mycroft, the most recent reading, _Your safety heavily depends on this, brother. Do not ignore me. -MH_

A small knot of anxiety tightened in the pit of my stomach. Any other message, and I would have ignored it and put his phone away until later. But, Sherlock’s safety? Surely Mycroft knew how dangerous his everyday life was. Unless this was something major, he wouldn’t have alerted Sherlock like this.

I unlocked his phone and typed Mycroft a quick message, hoping he was just exaggerating to get Sherlock’s attention.

_This is Laicee. Sherlock is sick and resting right now. Can this wait until the morning?_

I carried Sherlock’s phone with me as I settled onto the couch. Not even a minute had passed before I got a reply.

_It cannot. A very important item has fallen into my possession, and Sherlock must deal with it. It is very time-sensitive, and waiting until the morning will most likely bring harm to my brother and Dr. Watson, I can assure you. -MH_

I swallowed hard; time-sensitive was not good right now. Sherlock was in less than no state to be off solving crimes. The way he was right now, he’d be doing nothing more than stumbling along the streets of London, talking to himself and making his fever worse.

 _What kind of harm?_ I sent back, biting my lip as the knot in my stomach grew stronger.

_As of now, they are already in significant danger. Failure to cooperate on this task and complete it may very well result in serious injury, if not death. This outcome cannot be helped without my brother’s full cooperation. I believe you can see the severity of the situation. -MH_

My stomach dropped, and a wave of unease swept over me. Death?? Of course, something like this had to crop up the one day Sherlock wasn’t able to leave his bed. I swallowed hard, debating the answer I was about to send. For a second, I almost deleted it. I almost shut the phone off and walked away, but the thought of Sherlock and John being hurt –and possibly _killed_ \- forced my finger onto the send button.

_Is there anything I can do in his place?_

Mycroft responded almost instantly; I realized he had probably expected me to say this.

_There is a car waiting outside. Get in. It will take you to my office. I will discuss plans further in person._

I sighed heavily as I stood. This was not good. This was really not good. I had a feeling this was one of the biggest mess-ups I was about to get myself into, but I couldn’t stand around and let this happen. I grabbed my jacket and sent one last text, to John this time.

_Laicee’s asked that you come to watch me until she returns. -SH_

I slipped my jacket on just as John sent back, _Be right there. -JW_

Silencing Sherlock’s phone, I slipped into his room and sat it on the bedside table. He was sound asleep, just as I’d left him. Shutting the door, I hurried down the stairs, zipping up my jacket as I stepped outside. There was a sleek black car parked outside the flat. A very lovely woman stood by the car, giving me a smile. She opened the door for me, and I got in without hesitation, ready for whatever was about to happen.


	8. The Key

Mycroft stood to greet me the second I stepped into his office. There was a young man seated off to one side, and the rest of the room was empty. I had been expecting more people, a group perhaps, all awaiting the help of Sherlock Holmes, so I was a little surprised. The man still seated gave me a greeting smile as I glanced down at him, wondering what he had done to cause such a commotion.

“Laicee, dear, glad you made it,” Mycroft said, ushering me to a chair across from the man. “This is a new client of mine, James. James, this is a friend of Sherlock’s, Laicee.”

“It’s a pleasure,” James said, taking my hand and giving it a light kiss. He was a couple inches over me, with dark, mussed up brown hair and deep brown eyes. He seemed familiar somehow, but I couldn’t place where I knew him from. I gave him a small smile as Mycroft seated himself.

“You said that there was a time-sensitive object that Sherlock had to take care of,” I began, wanting to get to the bottom of this. “What is it, exactly?”

“A key,” James said, nodding to a small package on Mycroft’s desk. I frowned.

“Sherlock and John’s safety is jeopardized because of a key?”

“The key opens a very important safe, and that safe contains millions of dollars,” Mycroft explained to me. “It was taken from a very prominent group, and they demand it be returned. The men have made it very clear that they’ve given until midnight tonight to return the key.”

“So, what does any of this have to do with Sherlock? Can’t you just send Anthea or someone to drop it off?”

“See, they think that Sherlock Holmes took the key,” James spoke up. “My men recovered it, but they’ve demanded that Sherlock Holmes deliver it. Anyone else, and they won’t stand down.”

“What? Why?! Why Sherlock?”

“In their minds, he took it, so he must deliver it,” James said with a shrug. “I don’t make the rules, I’m just informing you.”

“Why are they so determined to believe Sherlock took it?”

“No idea, not even the slightest,” Mycroft sighed. “But they stated that if the key is not returned by Sherlock, or one of his accomplices, they will hunt down and ‘take care’ of him and Dr. Watson.”

“Well that’s just great. Brilliant,” I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “John’s at work, and Sherlock is in no condition to go off and deal with a case.”

We sat in silence for a moment, before Mycroft cleared his throat. I looked up at him.

“I believe, however, that you would fall under the ‘accomplices’ category.”

I raised my brow as James nodded.

“You live in the same apartment, you help him on his cases, you’re considered his friend… I don’t see why you’re any different from Dr. Watson.”

I sat up a bit straighter, my mind whirling. I was relatively smart; I could figure out where this was going.

“So you both think this would all blow over if I brought the key back?”

“Essentially, yes,” Mycroft said. “It’s worth a try, at least. We’ve only got until midnight, and you’re our only option as of now if we want to keep Sherlock and Dr. Watson safe. It would be over and done with fairly quickly, I’d imagine.”

“Okay, so hypothetically, I stand in for Sherlock and bring the key back to these men,” I began, leaning forward. “I hand it over, Sherlock and John are safe, no harm done, and I’m back home before six?”

“Exactly,” James assured. “These men don’t want trouble. They just want their key returned by the people who took it. So long as you get it to them successfully before midnight tonight, no harm will come to anyone. Explain what happened. They’d be understanding, especially once you return the key.”

“Will you do this for my brother and Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked; I could see the genuine worry in his face. I took a breath and sat up a little straighter. It was only a little key. I could handle this. I couldn’t even think of anything happening to Sherlock and John over something so trivial. I nodded, and both James and Mycroft smiled.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

***

I sat in the back of Mycroft’s car, James beside me, Mycroft across from us. The key was tucked safely in my jacket pocket, and I was trying to hide the nervous tremor in my leg. I took a deep breath to calm myself.

“We can’t be seen with you for this,” James said to me, resting his hand on mine to try and calm me. “The instructions were clear that you had to come alone. We’ll drop you a bit away from the warehouse, and you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. It’ll be about an hour, if you’re alright with that.”

“Not a problem,” I told him; he handed me a folded piece of paper with the walking directions, and I tucked that in my pocket as well.

“After you hand the key over, come back to the drop-off and give me a call. I’ll send a car for you, and you’ll be dropped back at Baker Street, no harm done,” Mycroft told me as the car came to a stop. I nodded and let out a shaky breath.

“You’ll do just fine,” James assured me. I opened the door and nodded.

“Laicee,” Mycroft called as I stepped out. I glanced back at him, and he gave me a grateful smile. “I truly appreciate all you’re doing for my brother.”

“It’s nothing,” I told him. “I’ll call you in a couple hours.”

The door shut, and the car drove off down the street, leaving me alone in an unfamiliar part of town. Taking a breath to calm myself, I pulled out the directions and studied them. The old warehouse was, in fact, quite a ways away, so I started walking. I wove through the streets, studying the map. I double-checked street names, observed the buildings around me… I took more precaution now than I ever had before. I was afraid of what would happen if I messed up.

After nearly an hour and a half of walking, I spotted the top of the old warehouse back behind a newer department store. Had I not been hunting for it, I would have missed it. I ducked off the street, turning my jacket collar up at the wind as I scurried down the alley.

The last couple words on the paper directed me around the corner to the back entrance. Tucking the paper away, I squeezed my eyes shut, calming myself completely before I pulled open the door. The room before me was huge, with rows of huge metal crates and bins lining the wall. I slipped inside, and the door shut behind me with a muted click of the lock.

I fished the key out of my pocket as I walked towards the center of the room. I couldn’t see anyone around me, and I began to grow nervous. Something didn’t feel right.

“Uh, hello?” I called, turning around as I walked, looking for anyone. “I’m here to bring your key back…”

I reached the center of the room and paused, still not having found anyone. Just as I began to call out again, I saw someone emerge from behind one of the rows. He was a tall, very muscular, very agitated looking man with blonde hair and dark eyes. He came towards me, a scowl on his face.

“So, you the one who took our property?” he called, and I swallowed.

“No, actually, there’s been a misunderstanding-“

“I think I understand perfectly,” he said, pausing a couple feet from me. “My key was taken, I make a threat, and now you come crawlin’ back hopin’ to get it over and done with.”

“I just want to return the key,” I told him. “I know the deal, get it back before midnight and-“

“There ain’t no deal,” he argued, narrowing his eyes. “I made it clear to your boss man. Either bring my key back and own up the easy way, or I come teach you your lesson. A shame he sent a pretty little thing like you, but that’s his own choice. Gotta admit, I expected more hassle, but I ain’t complainin’.”

“Sherlock didn’t steal your key,” I told him, frowning and taking a step back. “You said you just wanted to reach an understanding-“

“Sherlock?” the man asked. “Sherlock who? No, lady. I’m talkin’ about your boss.”

“My boss?”

He let out an aggravated sigh.

“Yeah, the man who robbed us. Moriarty. Jim Moriarty, I think he was.”

My breath left me, and I began to back up. _Moriarty_. Why hadn’t I pieced it together before? I recognized him from Sherlock and John’s descriptions of him. Jim, short for James… I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been. He was behind this. Of course; how had I been so painfully ignorant?? This was a setup meant for Sherlock, and I’d walked right into it.

I tossed the key on the ground, starting to make an exit.

“No, I don’t work for Moriarty. I-He set this up, I’m not involved-“

“Well now you are,” the man growled, kicking the key aside. I swallowed hard as he came towards me. I slipped my hand into my pocket, locking my fingers around my phone. My only hope now was Sherlock and John. “We’ve got a message for your boss, and you’re gonna deliver it for us.”

I had just started to spin around, just begun to dial John’s number, when a pair of arms grabbed me from behind, holding me in place. My phone fell from my hand; I let out a scream as I immediately started to thrash, trying to get away.

The first man came up to me as two more men came out from the sides. He stopped inches from me, and without warning, he drew his arm back and slammed his fist into my stomach. I let out a cry and doubled over, tears springing to my eyes.

“No one steals from me, kid,” he growled, grabbing my face roughly and lifting it up so I could look him in the eyes. “We gonna make that very clear to you and your boss man. You ain’t never stealin’ from us again.”

***

It was nearly six at night before Sherlock awoke. He pushed himself up in bed, drowsy and slightly put off, but feeling significantly better than before. Immediately, his eyes landed on the chair beside his bed; Laicee was gone.

Much of earlier he didn’t remember, save that Laicee had played a major part in his day. The milk and honey, a dull mystery movie, a sincere promise to be here when he woke up… it was all he could recall before he passed out. So, why then was there no evidence of Laicee now?

The cloth she’d been using to keep him cool had long since gone dry. She hadn’t been to check on him in quite a while. His phone was on the nightstand; she must have placed it there for him. She’d been taking care of him thoroughly, so why suddenly put an end to all of it?

Swinging his legs out of bed and slipping his bathrobe on, he pushed open the door and listened. The tellie was on, but only as background noise. Soft clicks from the computer overpowered the show that was on, and the smell of toast hung around him. It meant John was home, and so far there was no trace of Laicee.

“Glad to see you up and about,” John said, glancing back from the desk and giving Sherlock a smile as he shuffled into the living room, looking around, analyzing. It was well past suppertime, yet nothing had been prepared. John had made his own toast, and he couldn’t hear Laicee’s soft humming coming from the kitchen. His eyes rested on the coatrack, and he frowned. His brain still wasn’t at a hundred percent, and his analyzation skills were slightly lacking, which frustrated him.

“Where’s she gone?” Sherlock asked, looking around the flat. Her jacket was gone, and the blankets on the couch were disturbed, as if she’d hurried from the room. What else? He was missing something vital. The reason she’d left was in the flat, but he couldn’t see it. Nothing at all.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” John said, a disquieted look coming onto his troubled face. “I’ve been back since three, and I haven’t heard anything from her.”

“Back since three,” Sherlock said, turning to look at John. “She’s been gone since 2:45 then, at the latest. Took her coat, planning to be gone for a bit at least. She grabbed her phone, but left her wallet. She was in a rush.”

He pressed his fingers together beneath his chin as he began to pace. There was more. He knew there was, he just had to piece it together.

“She had stayed to take care of me, and she told me she would be here when I woke up. She had you come to watch me, which confirms she was only intending to be gone for an hour, maybe two. She’s still gone, which indicates she’s been held up somewhere.”

“Why do you say that?” John asked, turning round in his chair.

“You and I both know the way Laicee treats promises. Two years she’s lived here, and not once has she ever gone back on her word. It’s out of her character. She’s honest, with you and I at least. Why promise me she would be here when I woke up if she intended on… Oh-” he cut off, and his brows drew together. “Oh I see. She never intended to leave. She was planning on staying here, but something changed her mind…”

As Sherlock fell silent, John began to think. He furrowed his brow, and then looked up at his friend.

“Brilliant deduction and all, but I half-figured you knew she left,” he mused. “I mean, you texted me to come home-“

“What?” Sherlock demanded, whirling around. “When? What did I say?”

John looked extremely startled; he pulled out his phone and held it up for Sherlock to read.

“I mean, you could’ve been delusional from the fever, so you wouldn’t remember-“

“I never texted you,” Sherlock breathed, alarm in his eyes. He was positive he hadn’t. He’d left his phone in his jacket pocket. “Laicee must have sent that. But why text you that from my phone if…”

He broke off again, taking a step back from John. She’d used his phone; _that’s_ why she’d put it on his nightstand. Sherlock whirled and raced back into his room and snagged the phone. He unlocked it immediately and checked the time of the message she’d sent.

_John Watson  
2:43 pm  
Laicee’s asked that you come to watch me until she returns. –SH_

So, he was right. Laicee had left around 2:45. Sherlock headed back to John, more puzzled that ever. Why text him? What had pulled her out of the flat in a rush? He was just about to shut his phone off when he saw the previous sent text, to Mycroft this time, five minutes before she texted John.

_Is there anything I can do in his place?_

Sherlock’s stomach dropped, and he sucked in a breath. John looked up as Sherlock came to a sudden halt in the hallway. Slowly, almost not wanting to but knowing he couldn’t resist, Sherlock began to read through the rest of the messages between Laicee and Mycroft; his hands began to shake.

As Sherlock read, John studied his face. He began to grow alarmed as he watched the fire ignite in his friend’s eyes. They burned as they read; Sherlock’s face paled, and he pressed his lips together in a thin tight line.

“Sherlock?” John asked, the end of his question cut off by the doorbell. Slowly, Sherlock handed the phone over to John as he turned to face the stairs. He knew exactly who was hurrying up the steps. He knew the message the visitor carried before he even reached the door.

John read the last of the messages just as Mycroft Holmes reached the flat. He stood in the doorway, face paled and eyes burning with worry. Sherlock faced his brother, fists clenched and eyes burning with such an intense anger it almost hurt Mycroft to look at.

John stood slowly, glowering at the man in the doorway as he set down Sherlock’s phone.

“Where is she, Mycroft?” John demanded; Sherlock was too furious to form a sentence. He was using all of his willpower to resist beating his brother into a bloody mess. Mycroft looked between the men, taking a shaky breath.

“She was supposed to call me when she was finished. I had hoped she’d gotten herself back here, or one of you had retrieved her-“

“But she hasn’t, and now you’ve got to admit to us that you just put a sixteen-year-old girl in the middle of what is probably a hideously dangerous affair,” Sherlock hissed. “If you value your life, Mycroft, you will tell us where you sent Laicee.”

“That’s the problem,” Mycroft said quietly, lowering his eyes. “Only one person knows where she’s gone, and he won’t be giving us help anytime soon.”

“Who knows?” Sherlock hissed, his voice demanding. When Mycroft faulted, Sherlock took a step towards him. “Who knows, Mycroft?!”

“James Moriarty.”


	9. Game

Sherlock lunged for Mycroft; had John not been watching, the two of them would have toppled down the stairs, and Sherlock possibly would have beaten his brother into a bloody mess.

John was ready for the reaction, though. He jumped forward and slammed his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulders, jarring him to a halt. Sherlock’s usually-calm eyes were a torrent of rage; his body was tense with anger and his jaw clenched tight as he glowered at his brother. John pushed him back a couple feet and then dropped his hands; when Sherlock began to advance again, John held up his hand.

“Come on, keep it together,” John said to him, giving Sherlock a pleading look. “This won’t help us find Laicee.”

The rage didn’t leave his eyes, but Sherlock grudgingly let out a huff and smoothed down his bathrobe, keeping his distance from his brother.

“Had I known who I was dealing with, I never would have involved Laicee, I swear it Sherlock!” Mycroft said, his voice sincere. “I was only trying to do what was best-“

“For you, perhaps,” Sherlock spat. “Did it never occur to you the danger she would be in?” Mycroft started to answer, but Sherlock cut him off. “Of course it did, several times. Why else would you have played your cards so deceptively well?”

“I needed to keep you safe-“

“So you threw Laicee in the line of fire?” John snapped, rounding on the elder Holmes. “This is low, Mycroft.”

When his brother didn’t reply, Sherlock took a brief leave. He returned moments later, fully dressed, buttoning the rest of his shirt. He looked up at Mycroft.

“Tell me everything, everything from the moment Moriarty began to talk.”

Grabbing his scarf and jacket, Sherlock headed out of the flat, knowing the two behind him would follow. He hailed a cab as Mycroft began to talk. He told them how Moriarty had arrived, disheveled, begging to talk with Sherlock’s brother, saying he had something important. Sherlock listened in quiet concentration, drinking in what Mycroft told them as John directed the cab to Scotland Yard.

“It wasn’t a well thought out plan,” John said to Mycroft. “Sherlock, you would have seen through it instantly-“

“Because it wasn’t meant for me,” Sherlock explained, his face dark.

“He asked for you, demanded you, actually,” Mycroft said, puzzled.

“He knew I wouldn’t come,” Sherlock sighed, giving his brother a look. “ _Think_ , Mycroft. Had he truly wanted me to come, he never would have shown up in person, to say the least. John and I both recognize him, but Laicee does not. Do you truly think it was coincidence that this happened on the _one_ day I am ill and incapable of doing my job? No, he knew I wouldn’t come. He played his cards right.”

“Laicee didn’t suspect,” Mycroft said softly. “And neither did I. I led her right into his plan.”

“She would have caught on fairly quickly, had she not been driven by emotion,” Sherlock said quietly, his gaze flickering out the window. “I feel this proves why I continuously say that emotions are a dangerous, dangerous thing in this field.”

“She was worried for us, scared of what would happen,” John murmured, his gut tightening as he pictured Laicee, careless grin and bright eyes, lying dead in a ditch because she cared about them a little too much.

“She is very bright. Had she not been compelled to comply for our safety, she would have started to piece together the broken shards of this suspicious puzzle. What I can’t figure out, though, is why she felt so powerfully compelled to step in for me. She hesitated until you told her we were threatened. What would press her to act like this, I cannot say, but it hardly matters right now.”

John and Mycroft shared a look of wonder and knowing. Of course the both of them knew why Laicee had acted so carelessly in the heat of the moment. Really, was it that much of a mystery to Sherlock?

“Now what?” Mycroft asked as the cab stopped. Sherlock got out and wrapped his coat around him as John fell into step beside him. Sherlock took a breath.

“We find Laicee. I won’t leave her to Moriarty, I can promise you that.”

“You’re very passionate about rescuing her. You care for her, much in the way that she cares for you,” Mycroft pressed cautiously; Sherlock’s keen eyes flicked down to his brothers, and for once, Mycroft could see a hint of puzzlement in them.

“What do you mean?”

John kept his mouth shut as Mycroft shifted his gaze.

“Is it really a mystery to you, what compelled Laicee? What so powerfully compels you now to save her?”

Sherlock looked ahead and furrowed his brows as he slipped into the building. They climbed the stairs quickly, reaching Lestrade’s floor in moments. Anderson was the first to spot them. He drew himself up, as he always did when dealing with Sherlock, and glowered at the three of them.

“It’s afterhours, and I know for a fact that Lestrade doesn’t need you right now-“

“I need him,” Sherlock said curtly, catching the man by surprise as the group passed by. “I’ve come on my own accord, and if you value your health and safety, I would scamper off and leave me to my business.”

Lestrade looked up from his desk as he heard Sherlock’s voice; he was surprised, but the shock turned to anxiety when he saw the faces of the men approaching him.

“Sherlock-“

“I need your help,” Sherlock said, his tone low as he leaned over Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade’s brows flew up; in the five years he’d known him, not _once_ had Sherlock ever come to him for help.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “What’s going on?”

“Laicee’s in trouble, and we need to find her,” Sherlock said quickly. “From what I can tell, she’ll be in an old building, an hour or so from Baker Street. I can’t say where, precisely, and this is where I need your help. We need to check the buildings and find her, but I cannot do it on my own.”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment; he could see the fire in Sherlock’s eyes as he spoke, he could hear the tremor of anxiety underlying his voice. For anyone else, Lestrade would have turned away at this request, but the desperation of the mysterious man leaning over his desk was enough to make him nod and stand.

“I’ve got maps in the briefing room. We’ll plan out our search, and go from there.”

“Mycroft will fill you in on the details, and John will be there to answer what he can about Laicee.”

“Where will you be?” John asked, looking worried.

“I’ve got research of my own to do,” Sherlock said plainly, turning around and stalking away. John stared after him for a brief moment before turning and following Lestrade into the room.

Ten minutes later, Donovan, Anderson, and several other dedicated staff stood huddled around the table; several police cruisers had been sent out to scope the streets near Holloway, and an ambulance was on call, just in case.

“I’ve told Sherlock, and now I’ll tell you,” Lestrade said to John as he flagged another old building on the map. “I’ve been unsure, but the events of tonight are turning me in the direction I’ve been planning on going. I’m considering removing Laicee from Baker Street, for her own safety.”

John looked up, his face obviously pained. Lestrade met his eyes, and his look softened.

“I understand,” John said softly. “But I’m not happy with that idea.”

“And I’m not happy with the idea of a sixteen-year-old girl in the middle of this sick game between Sherlock and Moriarty,” Lestrade said quietly. When John didn’t respond, Lestrade swallowed hard and met John’s eyes. “Did I ever tell you that I was the one who came to Laicee’s house that day?”

John and Mycroft, who had been listening in, both fell silent. John shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have imagined-“

“Donovan and Anderson weren’t on my team yet, I was alone, and working on my day off,” he said. “We got the call. They needed someone to take control of the situation. It was bad, still terribly painful to witness, even after an hour of the intervention.”

John swallowed hard, staring intently at the map as Lestrade continued to flag buildings.

“I remember the first time I saw her, huddled on the back of the ambulance. She was bruised and shaken, but she still gave me a smile when I walked up to her. It says a lot, I think, about Laicee.”

John looked up now and said what Lestrade was hinting at.

“Even after being torn apart, she does what she can to make others happy.”

“She deserves a happy life, John, and I will do what I have to in order to make that happen.”

Before John could reply again, the door to the room swung open. Sherlock came up beside John, his face flushed and his breath slightly ragged.

“She was spotted in Holloway two hours ago,” Sherlock informed them.

“Yes, Holloway would make sense,” Mycroft said, nodding. “More than an hours walk from where we dropped her, but close enough, nonetheless.”

“How is it you know where she was seen?” Donovan demanded; Sherlock gave her an impatient look.

“Homeless network,” he said dismissively as Lestrade put his pen down and turned to the group.

“You heard him, get to Holloway, and don’t leave a single abandoned building unturned!”

Sherlock and John led the way from the room, racing down the hallway. John raced ahead and flagged them a cab as Sherlock turned to Lestrade. His eyes were dark, and his face was solemn, yet determined.

“I know what this is to you,” he told the Detective Inspector quietly. “But I swear it to you, I will find her, and I will fix whatever damage has been done.”

“You can only do so much, Sherlock,” Lestrade said as he began to back away. “There is some damage that cannot be repaired, no matter how hard you will it.”

Sherlock set his jaw and raced after John as a cab pulled up, Mycroft close behind. The climbed inside, and shouted the orders to the cabbie as the clock began to tick their precious time away.

***

The cab drove off twenty minutes later as Sherlock, John, and Mycroft raced down the street. Lestrade and a couple of men were west two blocks, while Donovan and Anderson covered the east side.

“Over there,” John said, spotting an old mill on the side of the road. Sherlock glanced at it and shook his head.

“Too close to the road. It wouldn’t do. It would have been somewhere secret, somewhere off the path, hidden back in the shadows of the town...”

They continued north, Sherlock’s heart beginning to beat faster. He didn’t know how long Laicee would have now, and he didn’t want to try and guess. Guessing would require imagining all that could have happened to her, and for once, Sherlock refused to use his brilliant deduction skills. The outcome would make his chest ache uncontrollably.

They passed dozens of old mills and warehouses, all of them being deemed unfit. Though Mycroft requested they at least check a couple, John trusted Sherlock’s judgment. He would know best how Moriarty’s mind worked, and he trusted Sherlock to find Laicee.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when Sherlock glanced back down an alleyway and spotted the very edge of a disused factory. He came to a skidding halt; he had almost missed it, tucked back behind a new department store. His gut pulled him forward; this was it.

John and Mycroft began to follow, but Sherlock turned back round to face them.

“Go and fetch Lestrade and the others,” he said quickly. “Bring an ambulance, and bring backup.”

John began to argue, but Sherlock gave him a look that unsettled John to his core and silenced him. The look of fear and anxiety in Sherlock’s eyes shut his mouth and made him oblige as Sherlock murmured,

“Please hurry, John.”

Mycroft and John spun around and raced back down the alleyway, hollering for Lestrade. Sherlock turned back to the alley and hurried towards the factory. He knew no one would have lingered behind, so he didn’t fear being attacked. What he feared was the way he would find Laicee, and that fear was almost strong enough to keep Sherlock from stepping into the building.

The moonlight was dim, but it was enough to maneuver by. Sherlock began to weave through the old shelves; he knew she hadn’t come in this way. There had to have been a back entrance. Eagerly, he pushed through the first room, and came into the next.

It was a huge, wideopen room with old shelves and crates stacked along the walls. And as he stepped inside, his heart slammed to a painful halt. Crumpled in the middle of the floor, abandoned like nothing more than unneeded rubbish, was the lithe outline of Laicee.

Sherlock didn’t realize he was shaking until he reached to unbutton his coat. He let it fall to the ground, freeing his arms as he began forward. He was glad that John and Mycroft hadn’t accompanied him; he didn’t want anyone to see him like he was.

Broken, frightened, sickened…

He increased his speed until he was running unsteadily towards the young, unconscious girl. He called out her name, but it ripped from his throat and collapsed into nothing more than a strangled cry.

“Laicee,” he tried again, his voice breathless and shaking. He fell to his knees beside her, his waivering hands reaching out, his analytical mind processing what he didn’t want to.

_Unconscious, ripped clothes, dark stains…_

His fingers swept her limp curls from her face, and his stomach tightened. He pressed down on her neck, expecting the worse.

 _Heartbeat. Faint, but fighting. Cold skin, pale demeanor. Severe blood loss. Bruised face, laceration to the cheek, split lip. Took several hits to the face._ He briefly touched her swollen temple. _Concussion, possibly mild. Hit with something small, hard, metal. Two indents on the skin, from a clip. Pocket knife?_

Gently, Sherlock took her shoulder and rolled her onto her side. For once in his life, Sherlock had to look away. When he finally looked back at her, he was surprised to feel tears welling; his vision blurred slightly and he blinked fast, making them fall down his face. His shaking fingers brushed over the cut mark in her jacket, dipping into the cold, oozing blood caked around the opening.

Slowly, he unzipped her jacket, and examined her.

 _Stabbed, the blade went between the ribs. Heavy bleeding, possible punctured lung._ He observed the rest of her quickly as he heard the wail of sirens. _Bruises on her neck, two lacerations to her arms._ Badly injured, and for what? For fun? For Moriarty’s sick pleasure?

But as Sherlock sat back, he could now see the glistening letters smeared onto the floor in Laicee’s blood; his stomach dropped.

_Game_

Moriarty had made his next move in their dual; first the bodies with Laicee and John’s names, and now this.

He could hear John shouting for him. Sherlock steeled himself, hastily wiping the tears from his eyes. He gently slid his arms beneath her, one under her knees, one beneath her shoulder. He stood slowly, lifting her smoothly into his arms and tucking her against his chest. He could feel fresh blood seep from her stab wound, staining his shirt, but he didn’t care. He carried her strongly, his long, pale arms encompassing the young, injured girl.

“John,” he called, his voice tight. He stepped past his jacket, the coat long forgotten. He heard John call for him again as Sherlock began to weave through the racks again. He called out again, and John pinpointed him this time.

“Did you find-“ he began, rounding the racks. He stopped in his tracks, his face falling. “Christ,” John gasped, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to control the wave of despair crashing over him. “Jesus, Sherlock, is she-“

“She’s alive,” he breathed, his voice hoarse as he fell into step beside John. As they walked briskly, John lifted the bottom of Laicee’s shirt, examining the wound.

“Deep, she’s lost a lot of blood,” he said, his voice sounding hollow. “She’s close to-“ his voice broke. “We need to hurry.”

As Sherlock and John exited the factory, Lestrade caught sight of him. His face fell into pain as he looked at the young, wounded girl. Donovan and Anderson stepped back with the rest of the officers, all watching as Sherlock carried her to the ambulance.

And as they lifted her into the back of the vehicle, letting John start to examine her, Sherlock climbed in as well. As she was strapped to the stretcher, Sherlock knelt by her side and slipped his hand in hers.


	10. Deductions

Someone had tucked me into bed.  
I was lying comfortably, cocooned by warm blankets and overly plump pillows. The smell around me screamed hospital, but the feel told me I was back at home. I hadn’t opened my eyes, letting myself adjust to being conscious. There was a horrible ache in my head, and a dull throbbing in my side.

I could feel something rested beside my arm, brushing my hand softly every now and then; curiosity forced my eyes open. Sherlock was seated next to my hospital bed, his arm resting on the mattress, his slender fingers tracing lazy designs on my bruised hand.

I smiled softly to myself just as his eyes caught mine. Seemingly surprised to actually see me staring back, Sherlock gently pulled his arm away and leaned down into his chair, clearing his throat gently and glancing away. Casual.

“You’re awake,” he observed, twitching his left nostril and glancing away from me. I let my smile grow a bit wider.

“Brilliant deduction,” I teased, and at this he glanced back and me and gave a small smirk. I heard the door open, and though I’d been expecting a strange doctor, I felt relief when John walked into the room. A huge smile came onto his face.

“I didn't expect you awake for another few hours,” he said, coming up next to Sherlock. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not the best, I’m not gonna lie,” I sighed, attempting to sit up. My left side twinged painfully and I winced. John immediately moved to my side and slid a strong arm behind me.

“Careful,” he urged, easing me up against the pillows. “That punctured lung isn’t going to heal if you bounce around too much.”

“Brilliant,” I muttered. “Punctured lung. What else?”

“Well,” John sighed, sitting down on the edge of my bed and turning to face me. Sherlock stayed in his chair, acting distant and bored, but I could see his clear eyes dart to me every now and again. Every glance he gave me sent a flutter through my stomach; I pushed the blush from my cheeks.

“Give it to me,” I said, replacing the shy blush with a smile directed at John. “I think I’ve got both my legs, I’m not paralyzed, and unless I’m missing anything vital, I can handle it.”

“You had some minor cuts for the most part, but in a couple spots you were sliced into pretty bad,” John began, pointing to my upper thigh, my right hip, and a smaller one I could see on my inner arm; it was stitched neatly and healing now.

“How long was I out?” I asked, noting that most of my bruises had now fully formed, with some already starting to fade.

“Fifty seven hours,” Sherlock interjected without missing a beat, catching both John and I by surprise. We glanced at him, but he didn’t turn to look at us; John smiled slightly.

“You can thank your concussion for that,” John informed me, his fingers brushing against my left temple. “Whether it was mild or severe, I won’t know until I observe you, but I’m pretty confident the damage isn’t too bad.”

“That explains the headache,” I sighed. “So, last but not least… I’m guessing you’re waiting to tell me more about my side. How’d I manage to get a punctured lung?”

“You were stabbed,” John said softly. My eyes widened slightly, and immediately I pushed my blankets down, pulling my gown to the side. The deep wound had been heavily stitched, and it was bruised a deep blue around the injury. I winced and covered it up again.

“Lestrade will be here soon,” John informed me, glancing at the clock. “He’s going to want to know about the attack.”

“I don’t remember all of it, but I’ll tell him what I can,” I said; at this, Sherlock looked over at me and got to his feet. I looked up at him as he paused beside John and I.

“Can you describe the man who attacked you?” he asked, his voice taking on an unusual tone.

“ _Men_ ,” I corrected, and both John and Sherlock tensed at this. “And yeah, I remember them all.”

“Describe them,” Sherlock asked me; I rolled my eyes to the top of my head. I listed off their characteristics and described the region of their accents, knowing their voices would help him in his thoughts. As I spoke, I could see Sherlock’s eyes flickering back and forth, piecing together my information.

“You’ve got something,” I said, watching his expression. I’d spent enough nights working on cases with him to recognize his faces.

“A gang from East London,” Sherlock murmured, turning from my bed. I looked after him as he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on.

“Sherlock?” I called, part of me wanting him to stay here. Sherlock glanced at me.

“I’ve got business to take care of,” he said briskly, nodding at John and I as he disappeared out the door. The two of us sat in silence; I fiddled with my blanket. John got up as he heard voices coming towards the room.

“You know, that’s the first time he’s left this room in fifty seven hours,” he said off-hand, glancing over at me and shooting me a smile. I flushed and looked down at my blanket as Lestrade came into my room.

“Laicee,” he breathed, looking relieved. A grin split my face as he came up to me.

“Hi Lestrade,” I said, lifting my arms gently and giving him a hug. He squeezed softly and then pulled away as Donovan and Anderson came in as well. Donovan gave me a smile; she’d always been polite to me. Anderson did his best not to sneer.

Lestrade sat down on my bed and rested his hand on mine; he’d always done his best to take care of me.

“You know you can call me Greg,” he teased; I shook my head, smiling.

“No, you’re not Greg. You’re Lestrade.”

“Fair enough,” he laughed. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

“I’ll tell you what I can remember,” I promised. “A bit of it is a little blurry, but I think I can recall most of it.”

“If you start to get tired or anything, just let us know,” John said, settling into the chair Sherlock had been occupying.

“Alright,” I agreed. “Well, after talking with Mycroft over Sherlock’s phone, Anthea took me to his office…”

I recounted the story, giving them as much detail as I could, skimming over the unclear details. When I got done recounting the attack, Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and shut his notebook.

“A trap meant for Sherlock, and you ended up in the middle of it,” he said, giving me a stern look. “Next time, let’s not get involved in high crime, understood?”

“No promises,” I teased, giving him an agreeing smile. He gave my hand a squeeze as he stood.

“We’ll leave you to rest. I’m off to see how many members of that gang I can track down. If you remember anything else, you have my number.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” I promised as Donovan and Anderson ducked out of the room.

“Be safe, kiddo,” he said, giving me a smile as he glanced at John. “Take care of her, yeah?”

“Always have, always will,” John promised, resting a hand on my shoulder. As Lestrade disappeared, I looked up at him.

“Are you my doctor?” I mused, and he nodded.

“Lestrade pulled a few strings for us. Sherlock and I preferred if I treated you.”

“I appreciate that,” I told him honestly. “When can I go home?”

“I’ll find out,” he told me, heading for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

John left, and I settled back onto my pillow. I’d only been alone for a couple of minutes when I heard someone knock hesitantly at my door.

“Come in,” I called, and immediately regretted my words when I saw Mycroft step cautiously into my room. My face darkened, and I glowered at him. “Get out,” I snarled.

“I’ve only come to apologize, Laicee,” he said softly, holding up his hands. I clenched my jaw and quirked a brow, waiting. “I had no idea what I was getting you in to. Had I known about Moriarty and the setup, I never-“

“You didn’t know it was Moriarty?” I asked him out of surprise, without thinking. He gave a small shake of his head, sincerely looking apologetic. I let out a heavy sigh, my hostility easing just a bit.

“I swear it to you, Laicee, I hadn’t the slightest.”

“Well,” I murmured, looking up at him. “Then I can’t be too mad. John said you helped find me, so thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” he said as John came back in.

“The nurse said they want to keep you a couple more days-“ he broke off when he saw Mycroft, and he tensed. I could see the anger in his expression as he squared his shoulders; he glanced at me briefly to make sure I was alright. When he noticed I wasn’t too terribly upset, he relaxed a bit. Mycroft pressed his thin lips into a tense, tight line as he gave John a cool stare.

“A couple days?” I asked to break the silence, my voice holding a hint of exasperation; the thought of staying here over the weekend didn't sit well with me. Mycroft glanced between John and I, then cleared his throat.

“I think I can help with that,” he offered, disappearing out the door.

“What…?” John began, glancing between myself and the swinging door. I shrugged.

“Came to apologize.”

“A Holmes apologizing willingly?” John joked as Mycroft came back in, not even half a minute later.

“Laicee, you’re free to leave tonight, so long as Dr. Watson is alright with tending to you.”

My face brightened, and Mycroft gave me a small smile. John nodded agreeing, and Mycroft gave me a parting nod.

“As I said, the least I could do.” He headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “I wish you a quick recovery,” he said, and then disappeared.

***

“Why don’t I set you up on the couch?” John asked as the cab pulled up outside the flat. “It’ll be easier to take care of you, and you won’t need to manage the stairs.”

He came round to my door and opened it, sliding his arm around my back and lifting me up to my feet. Walking was not my specialty right now.

Between the pain in my lung when I moved, and the vertigo from my concussion, staying vertical was not coming as naturally as I’d have liked. John supported me as he hobbled to the door. Luckily for both of us, I was shorter than him.

As he pushed open the door, I was greeted by an explosion of Mrs. Hudson. She came bustling forward, tears in her eyes, a big smile on her face.

“Laicee, sweetheart, oh thank heavens you’re alright,” she all but cried, wrapping her arms around me. I did my best to hug her back as John kept a steadying hand on my shoulder.

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson,” I laughed as we pulled apart. She cupped my face in her hands, and then looked at John.

“Bless you and Sherlock for taking care of her,” she praised; she gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then bustled off up the stairs, saying something about a nice cup of tea.

“I’m honestly not sure if I can get up these,” I told him, sighing as I made a face at the stairs. Just hobbling into the entryway had nearly drained me of all my willpower.

“Right,” John said, dropping his bag and taking his jacket off. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

With that as my only warning, John wrapped his arm around my shoulder and then slid his other arm beneath my legs, scooping me to his chest, minding my injuries. I gave a yelp and clung tight to him, suddenly extremely thankful he was more sturdy than he looked.

“You weigh less than nothing,” John informed me before I could even start my protest. “Much easier than carrying Sherlock, I assure you.”

“No wonder people talk about you two,” I teased, and John gave me a look as he stepped into his flat. I looked around quickly, and saw that Sherlock, in fact, wasn’t here. I’d been hoping to see him waiting for us, but we were alone.

John sat me gently on the couch, careful not to jostle me too much. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around in the kitchen, talking more to herself than us, the tea already started. Once I was settled, John handed me the remote and said,

“Alright, what do you need from your room?”

“Uhm, my pillow, a blanket, and my pajamas. That should do for now.”

“Right,” he said, disappearing back down the stairs. He came back a few moments later and deposited my things beside me. He held out his phone, and I raised a brow.

“Why don’t you text Jeanette and have her bring your homework by? You won’t be back in school for a couple days.”

“Oh, right,” I sighed, wishing John wasn’t so mindful. He gave me a knowing smirk as I grabbed it and glowered up at him. My phone had been smashed when I was attacked, so I was all but cut off from most of my world. I sent her a quick text, and while John was in the kitchen helping Mrs. Hudson, I sent another.

_To: Sherlock Holmes  
Be safe. –LB_

***

Some time after dinner, John put in a movie for Mrs. Hudson and I, and the three of us gathered in the flat, sipping tea and chatting idly. I’d started dozing off about halfway through, and eventually John must have turned it off and tucked me in.

I woke up several hours later, my headache severe enough to pull me from my medication-induced sleep. I slowly eased myself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain in my side as I pushed my blankets off.

I felt like an old woman, hobbling meekly into the kitchen, unable to stand up straight. I reached the counter, and realized that, thanks to my already short stature, I couldn’t reach the cabinet without stretching. For a moment, I considered waking John, but I knew he was tired.

Instead, I opted for clinging to the counter while I feebly scrabbled at the shelves. The bottles skittered away from my fingers, further back into the cabinet, and I cursed under my breath. I'd nearly snagged a few when I heard the front door open. I stopped and listened, my nerves on end. For a moment, memories of the attack flooded my mind.  
What if they followed me home? What if that was why Sherlock wasn't back yet? I asked myself, beginning to panic until I picked up the sound of long, steady steps on the stairs. Sherlock's gait was easy to identify; I heard him and John walking above me all day for two years.

A moment later, he appeared around the corner. He had intended to go straight to his room when he caught sight of me; he paused in midstep and stood to stare at me.

“Would you mind getting the Tylenol?” I asked him quietly, still awkwardly clinging to the counter. He didn’t move for several moments, and I was about to tell him nevermind when he strode forward. Pausing behind me, his hands took hold of my hips gently and he eased me back down out of my way. He reached up past me, his chest against my back, and he grabbed the bottle down for me.

As he pressed the Tylenol into my hand, I caught a shimmer of crimson on his shirt sleeve, and my eyes widened.

“Are you bleeding?” I asked him, setting the bottle aside and snagging his wrist as I turned around to stare up at him. Sherlock sniffed and twitched his lips, saying casually,

“Not anymore.”

I felt concern take over, and I gently pulled his hand into the light, pushing his sleeve back. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied, and he had a few fresh cuts on his forearms; as I examined him further, I could see what looked like a sizeable injury on his shoulder.

“What happened?” I asked him, and I saw the defenses go up in his eyes. He pulled back gently from me and stepped to the side, making for his room. I turned unsteadily. “Please, tell me.”

He stopped, keeping his back to me. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t move. I could see him breathing slowly, his fingers tapping subtly on his thigh. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in his usual dismissive tone,

“I took care of them, the men that attacked you.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I simply stood in the kitchen, surprise on my face.

“Took care of them, as in-“

“There is no possibility that they will ever be able to hurt you again,” he confirmed simply. I continued to stare at him, a question rising in my throat that I was almost afraid to ask. Sherlock continued to stand, unmoving, and finally, I had to voice my words.

“Why… Why did you do that?”

I expected a sarcastic answer, or even no answer at all. What I did not expect was for Sherlock to turn back around and lock his eyes with mine. I did not expect him to take two and a half steps closer, and I certainly didn’t expect his hand to brush my curls back from my face.

“For the same reason you consulted with Mycroft in my place.”

The expression on my face must have been priceless, because for once in a blue moon, Sherlock actually smiled. Not half a lip twitch, not a smirk, not even forced politeness. He gave me a warm, genuine smile as I stood there, piecing together what he’d just said.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” he said softly. “Goodnight, Laicee.”

And, just to throw my brain into more turmoil, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips fleetingly to my forehead. As quick as it’d happened, he pulled back and disappeared into his room.

I stood, dumbfounded, in the very center of the kitchen, all my problems forgotten and all of my pain put on hold as I tried to figure out what had just happened.


	11. Happy Birthday

“Happy birthday Lace,” John said with a grin, coming up to the stove and giving me a hug as Mrs. Hudson bustled in. I smiled as I returned the hug, then went back to flipping the pancakes.

“Oh come now, Laicee, don’t be cooking on your birthday,” Mrs. Hudson chastised, pulling me away from the pan and gently pushing me down into the chair. I started to object, but she cut me off. “You have your presents to open anyways, now go on, relax a bit!”

With a soft chuckle, I leaned back into the chair. It had been a little more than a month since my attack; I’d healed rather well, save the couple of scars that I’d have for quite a while. March had passed without anything of any importance happening. I’d seen Oliver twice, and both times ended with his attempts of apologizing to me turning into shouted insults and empty threats. Sherlock and I never spoke of the night in the kitchen, and John finally stopped worrying himself into a frenzy every time I left the flat alone. Things seemed normal again.

April, for once, was balmy and enjoyable, and today was no exception. I'd opened the windows in the flat, and a warm, sweet breeze gusted through the dusty room. Spring was in the air. As I settled into my seat, John pushed two neatly wrapped presents towards me. I sighed and gave him a look as I reluctantly took them.

“I thought I told you all not to get me anything,” I said, and Mrs. Hudson turned to give me a warm smile.

“Laicee, dear. It’s your birthday. We had to get you something.”

With a small smile, I opened her gift first. I couldn’t help the grin that came over my face. I held up the beautiful shirt - the same one I'd been admiring in the shop window around the corner - turning it over in my hands as I admired it.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful!” I said to her, holding it up to me and grinning.

“Go on, try it! I want to see how it looks,” she urged. I hurried to the bathroom, scrambling to change. It fit me well, the soft tank hugging my chest and billowing out down to my waist. I loved it even more now that it was on me instead of the mannequin, and I grinned at my reflection. I returned to the kitchen, and Mrs. Hudson’s smile grew wider.

“You look lovely, dear!”

“It suits you,” John complimented as I sat back down and picked up his gift. Still smiling, I unwrapped it; my jaw dropped a bit.

“Oh, wow,” I breathed, pulling the bracelet out of the box. John leaned over and took it from me, clasping it around my wrist. I turned my arm around, grinning as I stared at my new gift. It was a beautiful silver charm bracelet, already filled with feather charms and a beautiful diamond star.

“I thought of you when I saw it,” he told me, tapping the star. “I wasn’t going to get you anything, but I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I told him. “I love it. Thank you.” As I got up and gave John another hug, I saw Sherlock stroll out of his room, buttoning up his shirt as he went.

“John, Lestrade has a crime scene he needs us to look at. I told him we would stop by-“ his words cut off as he finally looked up and took in the scene around him.

“Sherlock, dear, would you like some pancakes?”

“Your birthday is today?” he asked, raising his brows as Mrs. Hudson sat my breakfast down in front of me.

“It looks that way,” I teased as I began to eat. Sherlock stood where he was, glancing between the three of us in front of him. Finally, he grabbed his coat from the back of the door and slipped it on.

“Sherlock,” John started, giving him a frustrated look. “Why don’t you sit down-“

“I’ve got other things to do,” he said simply, wrapping his scarf around him. I looked up at him, trying not to show the slight disappointment I was starting to feel. I didn’t want him to be overly cheerful or celebratory, but I’d hoped he would at least eat breakfast with us.

John caught the look on my face and cleared his throat at Sherlock.

“Ten minutes. It won’t kill you.”

Sherlock held John’s gaze, twitched an eye, and turned away.

“Come by Lestrade’s office later. I’ll need your input.”

With that, Sherlock disappeared down the stairs, the door echoing as it shut. The three of us stayed quiet for a moment as Mrs. Hudson sat down and started eating with us.

“I’m sorry,” John said to me; I shrugged and took a bite.

“It’s fine, that’s how he is,” I said simply. “He’s got things to do.”

I could tell John heard the lie in my words; I had wanted to see Sherlock, or at least talk to him for a bit, but really, I knew what he was like. I shouldn’t have even been mildly surprised. It was ridiculous to think that Sherlock would put any concern into my birthday.

“Why don’t we go somewhere?” John asked, sitting up a bit. “Bring Jeanette and Riley along, we’ll see a movie, or go out on the town. Something fun like that.”

“What a lovely idea,” Mrs. Hudson said fondly. “And tonight we’ll have a nice meal. How does that sound, sweetheart?”

I smiled at the two of them, two of the sweetest people in my life, and nodded.

“That’s perfect,” I told them. “We can go see a movie. I’ll text Riley and Jeanette and have them meet us at the theatre.”

As we finished eating, I sent out two quick texts as John and Mrs. Hudson got ready. Once Jeanette and Riley confirmed they’d meet us there, I sent out one more text, hoping for a reply but knowing I wouldn’t get one.

_To: Sherlock  
If you have the time, we’re going to see a movie. I’d like it if you came with. –LB_

Sherlock never replied. The cab pulled up outside the theatre, Jeanette and Riley attacked me with hugs and gifts, and we all traipsed into the theatre, in high spirits. The whole time, I checked my phone. Twice, John caught me frowning at the screen, and he’d nudge my side, giving me a small smile that I made myself return.

Once the previews started playing, I finally admitted to myself that no, Sherlock wouldn’t be joining us. I turned my phone off and slipped it into my pocket, my heart sinking just a bit.

***

The movie ended mid afternoon, and John and Mrs. Hudson bid us goodbye, saying they had things to take care of. John gave me a hug before he left, murmuring to me,

“Don’t let him ruin your day, Laicee. Have fun.”

“Thank you,” I said as we pulled apart. He gave one last smile and then slipped into the cab, leaving Jeanette, Riley, and I to ourselves. Jeanette linked her arms with Riley and I as we strolled down the streets, enjoying the great weather.

“Let’s go to the shops, like old times,” she said, beaming at me. “We used to spend all our time there.”

“I miss those days,” I said to her, a smile coming onto my face as we made for the little gathering of boutiques and thrift stores we spent absurd amounts of time in. “All our allowances went to stupid little knick knacks.”

As the three of us chatted and joked, slipping between shops, I allowed myself not to think about Sherlock. He was off, doing his own thing, and I shouldn’t let his dismissive attitude bring me down.

My day was actually going brilliantly until we left one of the last shops. Oliver was standing along the curb, obviously waiting for us. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while; he had lost a lot of weight. His face was gaunt, and his eyes were dark and bloodshot. He was pale, and he had a disquieting expression on his face.

“Happy birthday,” he said the moment we stepped outside. Jeanette and Riley froze instantly; I’d told them about the run-in with him in the flat, and they’d seen how he usually acted around me. How long had he been following us today?

“Thank you,” I said quietly, nodding at him. He started to come forward, and I tensed. Jeanette pressed her arm up against me, and Riley straightened up, narrowing his eyes at Oliver.

“These are for you,” he told me, holding out a bouquet of roses and a box with a silver bow on top.

“Oliver-“ I began, trying to think of how to turn his gifts down without upsetting him. He pressed the flowers into my hands before I finished speaking, and he opened up the box for me. Jeanette, Riley, and I all dropped our jaws; an intricate diamond bracelet sat coiled perfectly inside, glinting in the bright sunlight.

“A beautiful bracelet for a beautiful girl,” he said, pulling it out and reaching to put it on my wrist.

“No, Oliver,” I said quickly, pushing his hand away. “Oliver, stop. I can’t accept that.”

Oliver’s face dropped a bit as I pushed him away; as I did so, he grabbed hold of my arm and turned it over. His eyes darkened slightly as he caught sight of the bracelet already on my wrist.

“Why, because Sherlock beat me to it?” he demanded, his voice taking on the unknown tone I’d grown to hate. I frowned at him and pulled my arm back out of his hold.

“It’s from John, actually,” I corrected, crossing my arms. “Oliver, thank you for the thought, but I can’t accept something that extravagant.”

“I do so much for you, and you always throw it back at me,” he growled, taking another step forward. Jeanette wrapped her around mine as Riley stepped towards Oliver.

“That’s enough,” he warned. “Why don’t you get out of here before you do something you’ll regret.”

“Back off, O’Malley,” Oliver snarled, looking back at me. “All I’ve done is love you and take care of you, and you treat me like shit. I’ve had it, Laicee. I’m done waiting.”

“Oliver, please, don’t do this today,” I sighed; Oliver’s eyes flashed, but he stayed put. Riley kept himself planted between us, and Jeanette kept her hold on me. Oliver reached past Riley; I began to pull back, but his hand grabbed the flowers instead of me.

“I’m done waiting,” he spat before turning on his heel and stalking away, throwing the roses into the street. Jeanette sighed heavily, giving my elbow a reassuring pat as Riley turned back to us.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I should have-“

“No, you’re fine,” I told him. “It’s all fine.” The two of them looked unconvinced, but I forced a smile onto my face and said,

“Come on. We were having a good day. Don’t let him ruin it.”

So the three of us once again linked arms, forcing the bad feeling away as we strolled down the street.

***

John texted me half past five, asking when I’d be home for dinner, and if I wanted to bring Jeanette and Riley along. They were more than enthusiastic; they loved Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. After replying, we caught a cab back to the flat, looking forward to a good meal.

“It’s been a while since we came over,” Riley noted as we entered 221b; they used to come by a lot when I first moved in, when it was just Mrs. Hudson and I. It was no secret things began to change when John and Sherlock arrived in the picture, but we never really spoke about that.

“It has,” I said, leading the way up the stairs. “You’ve got to try this new chicken recipe she has. It’s really-“

As I walked into the flat, the lights snapped on, and the people gathered in the small living room shouted a mixed chorus of _surprise!_ and _happy birthday!_

My jaw dropped as my heart leapt into my throat; I barely managed to keep from screaming, and I was glad I didn’t. John never would’ve let me live that down. He and Mrs. Hudson were up front, huge grins on their faces as they saw my reaction. Lestrade, Donovan, and Molly Hooper (a lovely lady I’d met through Sherlock and his unpredictable work) stood off to one side, and Jeanette’s mum stood off to the other, accompanied by Mycroft and Anthea.

“Oh my gosh, you all didn’t need to do this,” I laughed, calming myself down and refusing to take note of the fact that Sherlock still wasn’t here. Jeanette and Riley pulled me into a hug that was soon added onto by Jeanette’s mum and Molly. Once I was released from their holds, John turned on some background music, and Mrs. Hudson gathered everyone around the kitchen table.

Where she found all the chairs, I’d never know.

It was halfway through dinner when I heard the top floorboard creak; I glanced up from my spot at the table, wedged between John and Jeanette, and locked eyes with Sherlock. He slipped down the hall and deposited his jacket in his room, then returned to the kitchen. He kept his face void of anything that would betray where he’d been for the better part of the day.

“I apologize for my absence,” he said, his voice smooth and his manners, for once, spot on. “Traffic was horrendous.”

Lestrade and Molly made room for another chair that Mrs. Hudson produced pretty much out of nowhere, and Sherlock settled himself across from me. He glanced up at me as he smoothed his napkin out on his lap.

“Would you pass the potatoes, Laicee?” he asked, and that was the only thing he said to me for the remainder of dinner. John could sense my irritation; sadness had turned from hurt to angry, and though I did my best to keep up my cheerful demeanor, I was silently brooding.

Once we’d all finished eating, the group more or less shuffled to the living room to drink idly and pass the time until dessert. I had begun to help Mrs. Hudson clear the table when I was all but forced from the kitchen.

“No working on your birthday, Laicee,” Molly chastised, giving me a wink. As I gave her a smile and turned away, planning to go strike up a conversation with someone to occupy my irritable mind, Sherlock gently grabbed my hand and pulled me to the side.

“A word?” he asked, his face calm. I flicked my eyes away. I heard someone come up behind me, and then saw John appear beside us.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice quiet but his words holding a warning tone. I was just about to decline and pull away when Sherlock’s slender fingers gave a gentle squeeze.

“Please, Laicee?”

I swallowed hard, but nodded. John gave Sherlock a warning look and said quietly to me,

“If you need anything…”

I nodded as Sherlock dropped my hand and disappeared into his room. Taking a settling breath, I followed him. I shut the door behind me as I entered and stood off to the side, wrapping my arms around myself as I waited.

Sherlock was standing at his window, hands clasped behind his back. We stood in silence for a moment, before Sherlock turned. His face was solemn, his brows drawn together slightly, and his lips turned down a bit.

“I forgot your birthday,” he began. I shrugged, making my curls spill down my shoulders.

“It’s fine,” I told him.

“No, it’s not. It’s your birthday, and forgetting something like that isn’t acceptable,” he said, looking as regretful as I figured he could get.

“It’s not that you forgot my birthday,” I said, my voice quiet but firm; as I spoke, he turned his head away, eyes fixed on the wallpaper. “It’s that once you knew, you left. All day. You’ve said all of ten words to me. I don’t care about celebrating or parties or presents or recognition. I want to spend my day with my friends. With the people I care about.”

Sherlock said nothing, his head still turned away.

“I know you don’t have friends,” I told him softly. “But I consider you mine, and I care about you.”

“I’ve hurt you,” he stated, turning to look back at me. I nodded, taking a steadying breath to keep my eyes from watering like they wanted to. “I am sorry, Laicee. Truly.”

My brows raised a bit; in the two years I’d known him, he’d never apologized to me for anything. Not even for setting my hair on fire. Twice. I knew he was sincere, and I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me. Knowing Sherlock, it probably never occurred to him that his absence would have any negative effect on me. So I nodded as I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“It’s alright. Really,” I added, when I saw he didn’t fully believe me.

“I’m aware you don’t like gifts,” he began, walking to his bed and rummaging through his coat. He pulled out a small object from his pocket then turned and folded clasped his hands behind his back, keeping the present hidden. “Close your eyes, please.”

I sighed, giving him a look and then shutting my eyes obediently.

“No one listens to me, do they?” I teased him, trying to bring some of my old self back to assure him I wasn’t upset. I could feel him pause in front of me. He grabbed one of my hands turned it over, pressing something small and soft into my palm.

“I listen,” he said quietly as I opened my eyes and looked down. A small, intricate dream catcher rested in my hand, the netting woven so perfectly it took my breath away. “I know how badly your dreams bother you. You try to hide it, for John’s sake, and possibly for mine, but I notice. I always notice.”

“This is very.. very sweet, Sherlock,” I told him, my voice catching a bit as I realized all the thought he had put into such a simple gift. “This means a lot to me.”

“As you do to me,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.

And as I looked up at him, an unreadable expression on my face, Sherlock leaned down towards me. He pressed his free hand to my cheek and tilted my head up, and my breath left me.

Sherlock pressed his lips to mine so softly I almost couldn’t believe it. I leaned into the kiss a bit, returning it as gently as it had been given. We held onto the moment for a brief second before he pulled away. My cheeks immediately burst into a blush, and I couldn’t help the smile that wormed onto my face.

“Just between you and I, agreed?” he mused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Agreed,” I told him, tucking my curls behind my ears.

“Happy birthday, Laicee,” he said, giving my hand a final squeeze before heading back out to the party.

***

The rest of the party significantly improved after that. Sherlock and I acted casually, not making the slightest hint that anything happened besides a well-deserved apology and the presentation of my gift.

It was half past ten by the time everyone started leaving. The others trickled out slowly, bidding me happy birthday as they went. It was nearly eleven by the time Jeanette and Riley pulled me into a final hug while Jeanette’s mom helped Mrs. Hudson finish up the dishes. From Jeanette I’d gotten a stuffed animal I’d fancied in one of the shops earlier, and Riley gave me a gift card to my favorite tea shop.

“Happy birthday love,” Jeanette said as Riley added in a high, sing-song voice, “don’t spend that without me, or I’ll be rather cross with you my darling.”

“Sod,” I teased him, nudging him as Jeanette’s mom slipped on her coat.

“Happy birthday sweet,” she told me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Stop by sometime, I miss your lovely face around my house.”

“Will do,” I promised her as they headed down the stairs. Once the front door shut, Mrs. Hudson gave me a tight hug, kissing me on either cheek as she shut the kitchen light off.

“Goodnight dear, sweet dreams,” she said fondly, giving the boys a goodnight hug as she went to her own room. As John yawned, Sherlock turned to me.  
“Sleep well,” he told me, nodding goodnight to John as he disappeared into his room, shutting the door softly. I helped John tidy up the living room before bed; we worked in silence, not speaking until we were done.

“Thank you for everything today,” I told him, wrapping my arms around his middle and giving him a sincere hug, which he returned generously.

“Of course. I’m glad you had a good day. Now go on, you’ve got to get some sleep,” he urged, pulling back and giving me a fond smile.

“You as well. G’night, John.”

“Night Lace. Sweet dreams.”

John disappeared up the stairs to his room as I went down, humming softly to myself. I snapped on my light and shut the door, wandering sleepily to my bed. I pulled out the dream catcher from my pocket and smiled to myself as I leaned over my mattress and hung it up above my bed.

As I righted myself, I heard a noise come from my bathroom. I turned, puzzled, staring at the half-shut door.

“Mrs. Hudson?” I asked, sincerely hoping she’d decided to do some late-night cleaning. As I began to approach the bathroom, the door swung open and Oliver stepped into my room. My body went rigid and I took a step back.

“Oliver, what do you think you’re doing?” I demanded; his eyes were dark and severely bloodshot, and his face was twisted into a snarl.

“I told you,” he growled, reaching behind him; he pulled a gun from the waist of his pants. My heart slammed to a painful halt as he lifted the barrel, resting his finger on the trigger. “I’m done waiting.


	12. Intoxicating

I pressed my back against the wall, fighting every instinct I had to either run or faint. Guns pointed at me were my weakness. I could handle most everything else, but the memories pulled to the top of my mind paralyzed me.

For a brief moment, I didn’t see Oliver; I saw my father.

“If you shoot, they’ll all hear you,” I said softly, my mind racing. I had to think of something, _anything_ to get Sherlock and John’s attention. I needed to buy myself time.

“As if I care,” he growled, the gun unwavering. “Mrs. Hudson is next door with her handsome friend. You know as well as I do she won’t think twice about hearing gunshots coming from the flat.”

“Obviously Sherlock and John will know something’s wrong,” I warned him, swallowing hard as I suppressed my terror. “Even if you kill me, you won’t get away.”

“Don’t play games,” he laughed harshly. “Your precious Sherlock isn’t here. I know he isn’t. We had him taken care of. He never came home. It’s just John up there, and your little wounded soldier won’t be fast enough.”

My eyes widened. I forced myself to ignore the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead as I focused on the more relevant detail I’d just learned. Oliver didn’t know Sherlock was upstairs; he had no idea, and I could use that to my advantage if I played my cards right.

“If you kill me, John will never stop looking for you,” I said quietly. “He’ll hunt you down and he’ll kill you.”

“I don’t care anymore, Laicee, I really don’t,” he spat. “After all the time I spent loving you, it’s time I took control. Sherlock wouldn’t let you be with me, but now he can’t stop us.”

“This isn’t love,” I shot back; gun be damned. I was on the verge of an idea, and I needed to buy myself another moment or so to think it through. “This is crazy. This is obsessive. This is _insane_. Whatever feelings you have for me certainly developed, but not into love. Into hatred, almost.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, his voice harsh. “I hate Sherlock. He stole you from me. I’m taking you back. He’s gone. You’ll see. You can be mine now. Mine or no ones. This is your choice.”

I took a deep breath; this was certifiably insane. I was an idiot, no mistaking it now. But I didn’t have another choice.

“Kill me, then,” I begged, holding my arms out. Oliver’s eyes widened slightly. “My dead body is all you’ll be able to have of me.”

I chose my next words carefully as Oliver’s eyes darkened. They had to be just right. Said just perfectly to throw him past the point of return in one swift move. “Because I love Sherlock with my whole heart, whether he’s dead or not. I will be too, now, and you’ll find not even death can make me change my mind about him. He and I will be together again, and you’ll have nothing.”

That was it.

Oliver pulled the trigger, and I threw myself to the floor. The air exploded around me, the gunshot shaking me to my core, like one loud round of thunder echoing around my room.

The bullet grazed my left shoulder; it burned, but it was livable. The straight-on shot would have been fatal. Oliver wasn’t joking; he’d been aiming for my heart. I hit my knees and immediately flung myself for my door. I had only a couple seconds before he cocked and took another shot.

I all but ripped my door from its hinges as I pulled myself up on the handle and threw it open. Another bullet tore through the doorframe; the wood splintered and sliced my face, but I kept going. I whirled around the corner as I heard Oliver cock the gun.

“John! Help me!” I screamed, stumbling in the dark, desperate to find my escape. Even now, I forced myself to think rationally. Though I wanted to scream for Sherlock as well, I had to keep up the façade Oliver had unknowingly invented. I could only pray Sherlock picked up on the subtle clue.

I scrambled up the steps, adrenaline pulsing through me so painfully I couldn’t stand. I had to reach the flat. I had to reach Sherlock and John. I made it up the first flight and started on the second as I heard Oliver crashing up the stairs behind me.

“Laicee?!” I heard John holler; I choked back the sob building up in my throat.

“John!” I cried, pulling myself faster. “Help me, please help-“

Oliver’s hand locked around my leg, and my words broke off as I hit the steps. I tried to wretch myself out of his grip, but he was ready for the fight I’d put up. He entangled his arms around my middle and hoisted me up off the ground in a painful move, shoving the gun up underneath my jaw.

“One more word, one more escape attempt, and I kill you where you stand.”

I nodded slowly, the cold barrel of the gun paralyzing me. Keeping a tight grip on me, Oliver began up the stairs. My mind was racing. I had to think of a way to tell John that Oliver didn’t know Sherlock was here. Sherlock was our only hope.

“Laicee, what’s happening-“ John began; he’d been preparing to come down the stairs when Oliver and I emerged. He had his own gun in his hands, but it wouldn’t do him any good right now. He couldn’t shoot Oliver; I was his human shield. The only relief I had from the situation was that Sherlock was, as far as I could see, not in the living room.

“Drop it,” Oliver hissed; John hesitated. Though John didn’t know it, he had just set me up perfectly.

“Do it, John, please,” I whispered. “He had Sherlock killed. That’s why he never came home tonight.” I gave John my best look, begging him to play along. John swallowed hard. “Please, listen. I can’t lose you too.”

John nodded, and I caught the understanding gleam in his eye. Slowly, he lowered the gun onto the floor and looked at Oliver.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, confused more than anything. “You care for her. Killing her isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Sherlock left me no choice,” Oliver insisted. “He had his grip on Laicee. She loved me, and he wouldn’t let her go. She’s mine now.”

“You didn’t do this alone,” John said, trying to keep him talking. Where the hell was Sherlock? Surely he couldn’t have slept through all this. He probably hadn’t even been asleep yet! “Who helped you, Oliver?”

“An old friend of yours,” he hissed. “Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” John breathed. “Oliver, please listen to me. He’s not a good man. He’s not the answer to your problems-“

“He’s solved everything!” Oliver exclaimed, his sudden outburst causing him to tense; the gun pressed harder into my throat, and I flinched. “He showed me the truth behind Sherlock Holmes. The medicine he gave me cleared my head. It gave me the courage to stand up to him and take what’s rightfully mine!”

“He drugged you,” John said gently, starting to approach us slowly. “He warped your mind, Oliver. You’re not stable. Please, let Laicee go. We can work something out-“

“One more step and I shoot her,” Oliver snarled, backing up desperately. John’s eyes flicked up, over Oliver’s shoulder, and without hesitation he threw himself towards me.

I felt Oliver’s hand tense to pull the trigger, but he never got the chance. Oliver was jerked backwards by an unseen force, the gun shifting off my neck just briefly. John grabbed hold of me at that exact moment and forced me to the floor as he wrapped his arms around me and shielded me from the gunshot that Oliver let off.

The bullet flew harmlessly into the wall, and I looked up, confused at what had just happened. My heart tightened, and I stared in awe up at Sherlock. He had one arm around Oliver’s neck, holding him firmly in place as his free hand held tight to Oliver’s, forcing the gun towards the mantel so the shot would miss John and I.

“Lestrade is nearly here,” Sherlock said, his breath short as he struggled with Oliver; his free arm flew back and caught him in the ribs, and Sherlock flinched. “Get Laicee out of here, John!”

I wanted to stay to make sure Sherlock would be alright, but John didn’t give me the chance to protest. He stood quickly, lifting me with him and shielding me as we raced down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was gathered outside the flat with a couple of our neighbors.

“John, Laicee, oh dear, what’s happened?” she cried, bustling towards us.

“We were attacked,” John breathed, not slowing until we were safely on the sidewalk across the street. The moment he stopped moving, my legs gave out from beneath me. The adrenaline crashed over me, and I sunk onto the cement, shaking.

“Lace,” he breathed, kneeling down next to me and taking my head in his hands. I was breathing hard, trying to eliminate the wave of emotions burning through me. All the fear I forced away inside had now come back tenfold.

“I-I’m fine, I just- I didn’t, I can’t-“ I panted, nearly hyperventilating. John swept his thumbs over my cheeks to brush away the tears I hadn’t noticed before.

“I need you to breathe, okay?” he said softly. Over the wail of the ambulance closing in on the flat, I could hear cars pulling up, and I heard Lestrade shouting to Donovan as he raced past us. A moment later, I felt a soft hand on my back. It was one thing for John to see my composure shaken, but an entirely different matter for someone like Donovan. The moment I felt her behind me, I forced my emotions back and cleared my throat, wiping any traces of fear from my face.

“Are you alright?” she asked me gently. I took a deep, shaking breath and nodded as I felt John’s gaze scrutinizing me. He knew I was lying, but he focused instead on the physical damage I had. His fingers brushed over my shoulder, sore and slick with blood, and his brows drew together.

“He clipped the skin, but besides that I don’t think I’m hurt.”

“Let me take a look,” he urged; Donovan stayed crouched beside me, probably on orders from Lestrade. John accepted the flashlight from Donovan and began to examine me as Mrs. Hudson came bustling past us.

“Oh dear, your new shirt,” she tisked, hurrying off to go shoo some neighbor kids away from the squad cars. “Don't worry, I've got an old recipe to get those bloodstains out in a jiff.”

"That's more than little disconcerting," I chuckled to myself as I attempted to calm down; John gave a bemused snort of agreement. My attention was quickly drawn to the activity inside. I could hear commotion coming from the flat, but I knew there was nothing I could (or would be allowed to) do.

“I’ll go get some supplies,” John told me, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. Donovan made no move to leave me, but I caught a lucky break. Lestrade and a couple of his men had just come out of the flat, forcing Oliver along with them. I nodded over to the group.

“I think they need you more than I do,” I assured her; after giving me a questioning glance, I nodded and she stood, patting my arm and disappearing to help contain Oliver.

I kept my eyes trained on the door to the flat, waiting. My mind raced with all the possible scenarios Sherlock could have faced in there, and the longer he took to emerge, the longer I had to envision all the ways he could have been killed.

So when Sherlock finally walk out of the flat, nothing amiss besides a couple of buttons off his shirt and a few curls out of place, I almost passed out from relief. His eyes swept the crowd, and finally they landed on me. I gave him a smile as he strolled casually over to me.

He held out his hands, and I took them without hesitation. He lifted me to my feet easily and helped support me as I regained my balance. I looked him over again, and finally allowed myself to accept he was alright.

“Would you mind explaining to me why Oliver was under the impression you’d been killed earlier?” I asked, giving him a scrutinizing frown. One of his eyebrows twitched up, and he gave a casual shrug.

“A couple of hitmen turned up at the hospital earlier,” he said dismissively. “I didn’t think anything of it, but now I suppose it makes sense.”

I gave him an incredulous look.

“You were nearly killed, and you didn’t think anything of it?”

“It hardly mattered,” he said, and then noticed the injury on my shoulder. His fingers brushed it lightly; I barely felt his touch.

“You were shot.”

“Not bad,” I told him, taking on his own dismissive tone. “It hardly matters.”

His brows drew together and he gave me a contemptuous frown. I returned it with a cheeky grin. He was on the verge of retaliating to my comment when our attention was drawn to Oliver. He let out an almost inhuman screech as they forced him into the back of the ambulance.

“So it was Moriarty,” I murmured, shaking my head. “I can’t believe Oliver was taking those drugs just because of me. He’s completely lost his mind."

“Well, your beauty _is_ intoxicating.”

Sherlock’s words had been said so casually that it took a moment to register with me, and when they did, a blush exploded over my cheeks.

“Really, Sherlock?” I mumbled, folding my arms over my chest, thankful no one had heard that. I snuck a glance at him when he said nothing, and my blush intensified when I saw the small, satisfied half-smirk half-smile flicker onto his face.

John came up to the two of us, and he quirked a brow at our expressions.

“What’s this about-“ he began, and immediately I cut him off.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine. Did you get the bandages?”

John blinked at my hastiness, and I blushed even harder. Sherlock chuckled softly and wandered away from us, looking around idly for Lestrade. John led me over to Donovan’s squad car and motioned for me to sit on the hood. I did as I was told, watching John’s hands work at my injury.

"How'd you get this?" John asked a bemused voice as he wrapped the bandage over my wound. A quizzical look came over my face and I stared down at him.

"Uh, I was just shot by Oliver, John. What's wrong with you?"

“Your beauty,” he smirked, giving me a devilish grin. “It _is_ intoxicating, after all.”

I felt my entire face light up scarlet, and I smacked his arm as hard as I could.

“John Hamish Watson, you’re a royal arse,” I snapped, smacking him harder when he began to laugh at my reaction. As I glanced away from John in an attempt to quell my blush, I caught Sherlock’s glance directed at me. Before he turned back to Lestrade, he gave me a wide smile.

My heart skipped a beat, and I grinned back, blush and all. Sherlock gave me a swift wink and went back to his work; I could still see the corner of his smile.


	13. Convenience be Damned

“Have you seen my phone?” I asked Sherlock, wandering back upstairs after another disappointing search of my bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t moved at all, still relaxed back in his chair with his fingers pressed together, resting against his lips.

“Yes, quite a few times,” he murmured, not glancing up at me, still partially submerged in his sea of thoughts. “White iPhone, small scratch on the bottom of the screen, an indent on the corner from when you dropped it last weekend-“

“No, I didn’t mean-“ I let out a sigh and gave him a look. “I’ve lost my phone again. I meant, have you seen it lying about recently?”

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered, flicking his eyes up to me. “Not recently, no.”

“Right, then I’m borrowing yours,” I told him, crossing to his jacket and fishing his out, then settling on the arm of John’s chair.

“Calling it won’t work, your phone is on silent,” Sherlock reminded me as I typed out a quick text to John.

“I know, that’s why I didn’t-“ I began, then cut off, giving Sherlock a suspicious frown. “How do you know it’s on silent?”

“Hardly a difficult deduction,” he sighed, dropping his hands and looking slightly put off that I even had to question his knowledge. “You had your phone turned on silent last night during the movie, and it died. You plugged it in and didn’t bother turning the volume up again, what for? You were going to sleep. You lost it sometime this morning, just after you woke up. You didn’t turn it on before your shower –you never do- and now that it’s gone, how could it possibly be turned up?”

“You notice all that, but you couldn’t manage to see where I set it down?” I sighed, reading the text John sent back.

“I’m not the one who lost it,” he pointed out, giving a pompous sniff. Shooting him a slightly irritable frown, I stood and tossed his phone onto his lap.

“I’m heading to lunch with John. D’you wanna join us?”

“I’m on a case, Laicee.”

“Still?” I asked, a little put off. Sherlock hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning; since then, the ‘game’ with Moriarty had consumed him. Nothing new had turned up. No new evidence, clues, murders, hints.. nothing. It was driving Sherlock crazy. Every other week or so, he’d delve back into the game in attempts to see if there was anything, anything else at all, that would give him a clue. It would eat away at him until John and I forced him back into the real world.

“Until it’s solved, the answer to that question won’t change,” he informed me, his left nostril twitching as he gave me his signature Sherlock look. I sighed and gave him a concerned glance, but let the matter slide. Arguing with Sherlock was a moot point.

“I’ll be back in a bit. If you need anything from the shop, text John’s phone, alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he said dismissively, pressing his fingers back to his lips and furrowing his brows slightly. I knew that was my signal to keep quiet and leave him be, so I snagged my wallet and jogged down the steps, calling goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as I went.

It was a surprisingly lovely day, given that it had been a constant downpour the last couple of days. The weekend couldn’t have come fast enough; as of late, school had become a serious nuisance. Since the whole incident with Oliver, topped with Jeanette blabbing about the attack a couple months ago, I was pretty much talk of the school. It got old faster than I could have imagined; I was constantly swarmed by people, mostly girls, asking about the life of Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate. I wanted to strangle them all.

I caught sight of John seated outside our usual diner, waiting patiently. He looked up as I drew near, and gave me a smile.

“Lost your phone again?”

“I swear it grew legs and walked away this time,” I sighed, only half-joking. “How’s work?”

“Busy, for once,” he said, pulling me into a warm hug. “How’s Sherlock doing?”

“He’s still on that bloody case,” I muttered as we slipped inside and got in line. “I’m a little worried, honestly.”

John nodded in understanding.

“He’ll pull out of it. It’s Moriarty; of course he’ll be obsessed with it for a while. Let’s just hope it ends quickly or dies down.”

I nodded my agreement as we fell into our usual passing chatter, doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s company.

***

“Is there anything you’d like for dinner?” I asked as we left the diner. I wasn’t surprised to see a storm had started up. Good weather never really lasted long, it seemed. I now deeply regretted not wearing a jacket, the wind being stronger than usual.

“I’ll be staying late tonight, I think,” he sighed. “Don’t bother with anything special. I’ll take whatever you make.”

“Right,” I said, giving him a swift hug. “Hurry back, it’s getting worse. Text Sherlock if you need anything.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Lace,” he said, turning up his jacket collar and bustling away, disappearing around the corner. I all but sprinted to the shop as the low growl of thunder began to grow louder. It was very unfortunate, really, having a fear of thunder while living in London.

I made the trip quick, knowing it would only be getting worse from here. I grabbed only the things we really needed, and a few extra supplies for supper. I was in and out in ten minutes, racing up the street, doing my best to resist flinching as the storm raged on.

I burst through the front door in a flurry of rain and lighting, slamming it and then slumping against the wall, catching my breath. Setting the groceries down momentarily, I did my best to straighten my soaked shirt and smooth down my uncontrollable curls. Knowing I was as decent as I could get right now, I made my way back up to the flat.

“Did you get the cheese?” Sherlock mused, still in his same spot, now idly flipping through a magazine. I frowned at him as I sat the bags on the table.

“Cheese? What cheese?”

“I texted you half an hour ago, saying we needed cheese.”

“Sherlock I don’t have my phone,” I reminded him, beginning to put the groceries away. “I told you to text John.”

“Well then, we still need cheese,” he then informed me, and I rolled my eyes, suppressing a sigh. I grabbed the frozen veggies and pulled open the freezer, about to stick them in when my hand faltered.

There, perched on a half-empty ice cube tray, was my phone. I stared at it in disbelief for a moment, my brows drawing together.

“Sherlock? Why is my phone in the freezer?”

“Experiment.”

“Care to explain?” I snapped, pulling it out and trying my best to warm it. He hesitated for a second; I heard a page turn in the magazine.

“No.”

“Bleedin’ Christ,” I muttered, switching hands when my phone began to numb my fingers. I was about to retreat downstairs to change when I stopped and turned to look incredulously at him. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen it! You lied to me!”

“I did no such thing,” he argued, putting the magazine down and staring up at me, almost looking hurt that I’d accuse him of being dishonest. “You asked if I had seen it recently, and the answer was no. I took your phone this morning; that is not recently. I didn’t lie, I simply answered the question you asked.”

“You know damn well what I meant, Sherlock Holmes,” I retorted; the corner of his lip twitched up into a smirk. I jogged back down the stairs, muttering to myself.

I changed fast and returned upstairs with my bag, deciding to do some studying. I’d fallen behind after my nearly week-long absence, and I didn’t want to risk failing any of my classes. Sherlock had taken to standing in front of the window, hands folded neatly behind his back, his gaze trained on the empty London streets.

The storm raged on; I was suppressing my flinches as best I could as I curled up on John’s chair, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. I cracked the book open and began to read, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

I’d only been studying for about an hour when I felt a presence hovering over my shoulder. I glanced up from the book and met Sherlock’s sea green eyes, just a couple inches from mine. He was leaning on the back of the chair, his curls brushing mine.

“Light reading?” he mused, and I chuckled, handing my book up to him.

“No, I’m studying,” I informed him, tilting my head up to watch him scrutinize my textbook.

“Homework, dull,” Sherlock mumbled, flipping through the pages. “Studying, it’s a waste of time.”

“Not all of us are brilliant,” I reminded him, taking it back while giving him a look. “Some of us have to work at being smart.”

“You _are_ brilliant,” he said immediately, and then quickly averted his gaze when I looked up. I stared at him, feeling my cheeks tint pink. I sat the book down and continued to gaze at him. Most everyone he met was automatically deemed mindless and insignificant. He’d even called John an idiot on multiple occasions. To be called brilliant by Sherlock Holmes was the highest complement I could receive.

“You’re just being nice to me because I’m pretty,” I teased, forcing the blush off my face and trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock gave me a look.

“That’s not my only reason,” he argued, and I grinned.

“So you _do_ think I’m pretty.”

Sherlock scoffed and looked away; I didn’t miss the red flush creep up his cheeks. I smiled to myself as I went back to reading.

“Your complacent smirk isn’t flattering,” he said, wandering away from my chair.

“And that shade of red isn’t doing anything for you,” I teased, sneaking a glance at him as he wandered towards his room. I’d just gotten back into the reading when I heard the front door open. Immediately, I checked the time. It was half past four, not quite time for John to be home yet. He hadn’t texted me either, so I pushed my book and blanket aside and stood at the top of the stairs.

“Get the post, while you’re up,” Sherlock called out to me; I rolled my eyes, and could almost feel him smirking. As I began down the stairs, my mouth opened, ready to call out to John; I faltered on instinct, and my stomach tightened. Something was wrong. The front door was wide open, and I could hear someone with heavy steps maneuvering around the entryway.

Definitely not John.

Slowly, I crept down the stairs, minding the loose boards and staying silent. At the landing, I glanced around, and was about to call out for Mrs. Hudson when the board creaked behind me. I whipped around, but I wasn’t fast enough.

Something hard caught me on the back of the head, and I swayed. The storm outside the front door blurred, and I felt my legs give out. I dropped to the ground, my vision darkening as my head hit the floorboards. Someone stepped over me, and pressed a bundle of blurry somethings into my hand, giving me a twisted grin as they stood again, disappearing through the open door.

***

“Honestly, the two of them, bustlin’ about, leaving the door open,” Mrs. Hudson sighed, shivering as another cold draft blew under her door. There was a loud thud from the hallway, and then hurried footsteps racing about. What Sherlock and Laicee were up to now, she could only guess.

With the appearance of another chilled breeze, Mrs. Hudson had to put her foot down. She wrapped her sweater tighter and stood from the couch, sipping on her tea as she went to shut the front door and settle the two of them.

As she stepped into the entryway, her stomach dropped, and she drew in a gasp. Laicee was crumpled on the ground, her head resting in a small pool of blood, a bouquet of flowers grasped in her hand.

Tea forgotten, Mrs. Hudson knelt beside the young girl, the panic rising in her throat. It took her a moment to form a sentence, her fear taking over and making her sick inside.

“Sherlock! _SHERLOCK!_ ” she hollered, her shaking hands fluttering over Laicee, unsure of what to do. Swift steps hurried down the stairs; Sherlock was slightly put off by the sudden shrieking.

“Mrs. Hudson, really, must you shout-“

Sherlock cut off as he came round the stairs; his eyes fell onto Laicee, and his entire face fell. It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He nearly doubled over at the sight of her, and he had to take a deep breath before he could proceed.

“I just found her,” Mrs. Hudson panicked. “Thought the two of you were mucking about. I, I don’t know if she’s alright, she’s bleeding-“

“Please go upstairs and put the kettle on,” Sherlock said, his voice even and calm, as if his mind and heart weren’t in turmoil. He came down the last few steps and knelt beside Laicee, his slender fingers sweeping over her neck. The relief to feel a steady heartbeat was so powerful it nearly knocked him over.

“She’s only unconscious,” he reassured Mrs. Hudson when the woman refused to move. “She’ll be awake soon, and I’m sure she’d enjoy a nice cup of tea.”

Slightly taken aback by Sherlock’s calm, and almost _gentle_ manner, Mrs. Hudson got to her feet and hurried up the stairs, mumbling anxiously to herself. Alone, now, Sherlock let out a breath, and swallowed hard. He stooped over Laicee, pressing his forehead to hers and sweeping his thumb over her cheek.

A little more composed, now, Sherlock righted himself and studied her closer. He gently removed a small bundle of flowers from her hand and studied them. Three white roses, perfectly shaped, freshly cut.

He’d examine them later. For now, he rested them on Laicee’s chest as he slipped his arms under her, cradling her to his chest. He held tight to her as he took the stairs two at a time, making immediately for the couch. He laid her out across it, sweeping her curls back from her face.

“Here,” Mrs. Hudson offered, pressing a warm damp cloth into his palm. With one hand, he began to wipe the blood from Laicee’s temple; he pulled out his phone with the other.

_To: John  
Laicee’s been hurt. Come at once, convenience be damned. –SH_

Sherlock wiped the last of the blood off Laicee’s skin, and then gratefully took the bandage Mrs. Hudson offered. As she went to tend the tea, Sherlock took Laicee's hand and held it tight. He let out a heavy sigh, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to it as he stood.

Leaving her to rest, Sherlock retreated to the window, gazing out over the streets. His phone went off, and Sherlock glanced at the text, expecting a worried question with promises to hurry.

His stomach tightened at the words, and his hands began to shake. He read them twice, three times, four, five… No matter how many times he ran his eyes over the single word, he almost couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Yes, the text had come from John’s phone, but it had not been written by John’s hands.

_Set. –JM_

Moriarty. The next move in the game had been made.

John was in trouble.


	14. Set

“Queen Mary’s Gardens!” Sherlock burst out, loud enough to startle me from my unconscious state. I shot up from the couch instantly, my eyes snapping open as I clutched at my chest, trying to slow my racing heart.

The moment the light hit my eyes, I winced and cringed into the couch. I had a pounding headache, and the bright fluorescence was doing me no good at all.

“What the bloody hell,” I panted, opening my eyes a little more cautiously this time and turning to frown at Sherlock. He was leaning over a bouquet of white roses, hands clutching either side of the table as his eyes bore into the flowers. I timidly swung my legs off the side of the couch and dropped my head into my hands, trying to end the incessant pounding.

“Yes, yes, it all makes sense,” he muttered to himself, beginning to hurry around the flat and collect his things. His fingers fiddled with the collar of his jacket, and his brows drew together, his dark curls falling into his eyes. Even now, with the headache and the slight irritation, I couldn’t help but admire him.

I pushed the thoughts from my already jumbled mind as I stared after Sherlock, who seemed to be more than frazzled as he shoved his arms into his coat.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked, but he didn’t even falter in his movements. It was as if I hadn’t said anything. With a sigh, I ran my hand through my curls to push them away from my face. My fingers snagged a tangled, matted part of my hair, and I pulled my hand down. Dark crimson was smeared over my fingertips, and my eyes widened. Foggy, jumbled memories of a man leaning over me began to surface, and slowly I pieced together what had happened to me.

Sherlock was in a frenzy, I was battered and bleeding, someone had broken into the flat, and I could barely comprehend the here and now. I had less than no idea of anything, and not knowing what was happening around me scared me more than I wanted to admit.

Sherlock had just put his scarf on when I looked up at him again. His eyes landed on me, and I imagined my expression had been unsettling, because he froze and stared at me.

“Give me a minute of your time and please explain what’s happening,” I asked him softly, my voice forced into evenness as I did my best to mask the almost childish fear welling inside of me. Sherlock let out a breath and forced himself to stop for a brief moment.

“Moriarty has John. He’s in danger; he’s been used as the next piece in the game. It’s his retaliation. Whoever attacked you left those flowers in your hand as a clue. The clues point to Queen Mary’s Gardens, and that’s where I’m going, Laicee,” he explained in a rush, his words so fast I nearly missed half of what he rambled off.

“How do you know this is part of his game? It doesn’t make sense-“ I began, frowning. Sherlock sighed again and gave me an exasperated look.

“It makes perfect sense, Laicee, don’t you see?” he urged, picking up the roses and waving them. I gave him a blank stare, and he let out an irritated groan, dropping his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Of course it’s the next part of our game. Why wouldn’t it be? When I found you in the warehouse, he’d written _Game_ -“ I made a startled noise that Sherlock chose to ignore; he’d never told me about a message left beside me, but I figured he didn’t want to bother with that right now. “It didn’t make sense, but now it does. He sent me a message, from John’s phone, only saying _Set_. Game, Set… It’s chess, a game of chess. A game of wits with emotions and morality as the pieces, and he’s made his move.”

“You’re a little too happy for the given circumstances,” I informed him, ignoring the almost sadistic quirk of his lips as I pushed myself to my feet. My head swam a bit, but I shrugged it off.

“Queen Mary’s Gardens, though. How d’you reckon?” I asked, walking over to him and brushing my fingers over the roses. His smile got a little bigger; he loved showing off his ingenuity.

“It’s genius, really. The hint. This is a very rare rose, a hybrid tea type with a distinctive shape and a unique scent. Named the Queen Mary. A rose named the Queen Mary, and given the soil amendments I found in the stems, a safe bet to assume they were picked from the Queen Mary’s Gardens, notorious for their rare rose selection.”

I took the flowers from him and turned them over in my hands, then looked up at him. I ignored the dire situation, I ignored the slightly worrying callous glee Sherlock had, and I smiled. My reaction seemed to take him by surprise, because his face fell into slight confusion, and he blinked at me.

“You’re brilliant. Truly brilliant, you know,” I told him, setting the roses on the table. “Right, then. John needs us. Let’s-“

“You are not coming with me, Laicee,” he informed me, dropping the slightly-awed attitude and immediately snapping back to his abrasive Holmes manner. I stared at him in disbelief as he pocketed his phone and made to leave. I snagged his coat and pulled him to a stop.

“You’re joking, right?” I said, giving a short laugh as I stared up at him. His eyes flickered down, and then immediately moved off of me.

“This is very dangerous, and after all that’s happened-“

“After all that’s happened, I’m more than capable of coming along with you,” I said vehemently, crossing my arms. The thought of Sherlock disappearing along with John tightened my stomach; I wouldn't allow it. “John needs us, and I want to help him. What happens if you go off alone, and there’s no one there to help you?”

“You sound as if I’m incapable of handling my own,” he said coolly, and I snorted.

“Take it how you want it, but you’re not going alone.”

“It shouldn’t matter to you if I’m in danger-“ he began, but for once, I was the one that cut _him_ off.

“Well you know what? It does matter, Sherlock Holmes. I care very much if you’re in danger, because I think it would ruin me if anything ever happened to you, especially if I could help it,” I blurted out without thinking, my voice breaking at the end. I tightened my jaw in an attempt to force the tears of frustration and angst back, but it was no use. I hadn't exactly wanted to come clean like that, but apparently my mouth had a mind of its own. “I don’t want-“ I tried, but my voice wouldn’t let me continue. I broke off and swallowed hard, angrily wiping the stray tear off my cheek.

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t soften, but now he turned completely to face me. There was a cold fire in his eyes, one that burned straight to my core and made my breath hitch. He closed the space between us, cupping my cheek and reaching down with his other hand to link his fingers with mine.

“It kills me every single time I see you in pain, every time I see that someone has hurt you, _every single time I find you broken and bloodied and alone_ ,” he said, his voice low and rushed, almost uncharacteristically passionate. “Which has happened more times that it ever should have. I have died many times over you, Laicee Bennett, and I will not do so again if I can help it. You will be staying here, if for no other reason that to assure me that when I return with John, you will be waiting for me, safe and unharmed for once.”

“I want to come with you-“ I began, but he never gave me the chance to finish speaking. Sherlock pressed his lips to mine, and I pressed back. The kiss was powerful, pulling the breath from me and making my legs weaken. His hand dropped from my cheek to my waist, and he held me firmly against him, keeping me upright.

His hand played with mine, his fingers tracing light designs on the inside of my wrist. I lifted my free hand and brushed my fingers along his jaw, then entangled them in his curls.

We staggered back half a step, breathing heavily into the kiss; my back hit the mantle of the fireplace, and he pressed me roughly against it, holding me in place. My mind was clouding over, my emotions in an uproar as I kissed Sherlock Holmes.

And then something hard and cold snapped around my wrist, and my eyes shot open. Sherlock pulled his arm from my waist and broke the kiss as he reached back and clamped the other half of the handcuffs to the pillar of the fireplace.

He had chained me up inside the flat.

“You insufferable, heartless dick,” I snarled, lunging for him. The cuffs snagged tight and pulled me to a startling halt, my hand falling short of grabbing the front of his shirt. He quirked an eyebrow at me as he buttoned his coat, shaking his curls back from his face.

“Don’t you dare leave me like this,” I warned, clenching my fists as Sherlock turned and headed out of the flat.

“Don’t wait up, Laicee,” he called, traipsing down the stairs.

“Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ SHERLOCK HOLMES! UNCUFF ME RIGHT NOW! YOU UNBELIEVABLE PRAT!” I bellowed at the empty hallway, tugging angrily at the cuffs. When I heard the sound of a cab pulling away from the front door, I let out a snarl and shouted out,

“MRS. HUDSON! COME LET ME OUT!”

There was no response; either Sherlock had tied her down as well, or she had left for the evening. I turned my attention to the handcuffs; he’d done them tight enough so that I couldn’t weasel my hand free. The wood of the mantel was thick, and I knew that I had a better chance of breaking the handcuffs than I did of splintering the wood.

“Unbelievable, conniving little fuck,” I snarled to myself, continuing to yank my wrist against the cuff. I winced as the metal began to dig into my skin, but I didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the worry and fury welling up inside me; if I got free, I couldn’t decide if I’d hunt him down to keep him safe or kill him myself.

I’d been wrestling with the cuffs for a good twenty minutes; the skin around the cuffs was cut and bleeding, raw from my futile attempts at freedom. I’d taken to leaning back against the cuffs and pushing against the fireplace, attempting to break the metal, when I heard the front door burst open.

“Sherlock, so help you, if you don’t get your skinny manipulative arse up here with the keys, I swear on my mum’s grave I’ll rip out your skull and beat you to death!” I shrieked, twisting desperately as the cuffs refused to give way.

I heard rushed footsteps hurrying towards me, and I put on my most furious face for Sherlock to meet. The door was shoved open, and the last person I had expected to see tonight came stumbling inside, his gun drawn, his face contorted into angst and confusion.

John’s eyes met mine, and both of our faces fell into one mutual look of _what the actual hell is going on?_

“Laicee, you’re not dead-“ John stammered, the same time I managed to say,

“You’re certainly don’t look like you’re being held captive.”

For a moment, we just stared at one another; we didn’t break eye contact until I accidently shifted to the side, forcing the cuff to dig into my bone. I winced and righted myself, relieving the pressure as John crossed to me. I expected a borage of questions, but he said nothing.

John simply pulled me into his arms and held me to his chest. His sudden burst of affection took me off guard, but I didn’t hesitate to return it. After thinking he was being tortured in the hands of Moriarty, there was nothing more comforting than holding onto his rain-soaked jumper and burying my face in his shoulder.

“Why would you tell me something like that, Lace?” John murmured into my hair.

“What? Do what?” I asked him, pulling back a bit to look up at him. Now that I could clearly see his face, I could tell he’d been crying. A lot. He frowned down at me and reached into his pocket, then held up his phone. The text on his screen made my stomach drop; not just because of what it said, but because of who had supposedly said it.

_From: Laicee  
Left you a surprise in the flat, Johnny boy. Shame it had to end like this. She was so pretty. Enjoy cleaning the mess I made. –JM_

I pulled back from John as I pushed his phone into his hand, digging out my own from my pocket and pulling up my messages.

“I never sent you that, I swear,” I told him quickly. “And Moriarty didn’t have it. It’s been on me all day. Well, except when Sherlock had it in the freezer-“

I cut off, ignoring the puzzled expression on John’s face. I heard movement downstairs, but before I could panic, I identified the voice drifting upstairs.

“She’s not down here,” Lestrade called up; his voice snapped John out of his confusion.

“No, I- I found her, she’s up here, she’s okay,” he called, staring at me as I heard Lestrade race up the stairs.

“Lace, what’s the matter?” John asked, resting his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him and said quietly,

“Sherlock got a text from Moriarty, sent from your phone. He thought you were being held, but you’re fine. You got a text from my phone, sent by Moriarty, thinking I was dead. He was distracting us.”

John and I locked eyes as Lestrade and Donovan came into the flat. They were asking questions, but John and I didn’t hear them. All we could comprehend was the painful truth that had just been laid out in front of us.

“He was preoccupying us, getting us out of the way,” John murmured, his face paling.

“Keeping me and you out of the equation while he lured Sherlock into his trap,” I whispered, beginning to feel sick.

Sherlock was right; Moriarty had made his move.


	15. Stubborn

“I could get them off a little faster if you’d stop moving, Laicee,” John sighed, fiddling with the cuffs and the bobby pin. Donovan stood against the wall, observing us as Lestrade paced back and force and continued to ask questions.

“Queen Mary’s Gardens, you’re sure?” he demanded, clasping his hands behind his back. I nodded vigorously, inadvertently tugging at the handcuffs. John let out a grumble and gave me a look.

“Hold _still_ ,” he said again, and I reluctantly stopped moving.

“He thought that’s where Moriarty was holding John, but I’ll bet anything that he set a trap for Sherlock, and he walked right into it.”

“Why would Sherlock do something like this, all this trouble for his flatmate?” Donovan asked, and I glanced at her.

“He’s not as heartless as you think. John’s the closest thing he has to a best friend, and Moriarty made it seem like he was in danger.”

“We’ll go after him,” Lestrade assured the room just as the handcuff snapped open. I pulled my hand away and rubbed my wrist tenderly, already beginning to pace.

“Right. You and Donovan can take one side, John and I will take the other-“

“Oh no. Laicee, you’re staying here,” Lestrade argued immediately, and I stopped moving. I looked up at him and narrowed my eyes.

“No. I don’t think so. I’ve been over this with Sherlock-“

“And how did that go?” John interjected, and I gave him a look.

“I’m going this time, whether you lot like it or not.”

I heard the front door open, and I frowned, glancing down the staircase.

“Who’s coming-“ I cut off the moment I saw his face. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. You’re kidding me. _Anderson_? At a time like this?”

“Told you she wouldn’t be keen on it,” John muttered, and I whirled to glare at him. Instantly, my mind pieced together exactly what was going on, and my eyes widened.

“I am _not_ being babysat by _Anderson_!”

“Laicee, come on,” John sighed as Anderson smirked at me. “I want you here, and I want you safe. I can’t focus on what’s happening if I’m worrying about you.”

“You sound just like Sherlock, and I didn’t listen to him either. I’m coming with you. I’m giving you all a choice: I can either come with you and we can stay together and help one another, or I swear I’ll follow five minutes behind and put myself into more danger. Anderson can house sit, but I’m not staying-“

“I’ve got a pair of cuffs too, in case you’ve forgotten,” Lestrade informed me. “I _will_ use them, Laicee. Either stay here by choice, or I’ll force you to stay.”

I said nothing, only glowered at the Detective Inspector. John slipped on his coat as Donovan headed back downstairs with Lestrade. He glanced over at Anderson and I, then closed the space between us and gave me a tight hug.

“Please, Lace. I thought I lost you once already. Don’t make me fear that again.”

“Find him fast,” I whispered to him, hugging him back before we pulled apart. John gave a swift nod, warned Anderson to keep an eye on me, and then disappeared down the stairs.

We stood still for a moment, waiting until the cars drove away. Once the flat was silent, Anderson glanced down at me.

“Right, go watch tellie, or do a puzzle, whatever you do with your time,” he said dismissively, starting to wander towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “I’ll just be-“

“You keep your grimy arse out of there,” I warned, giving him a look. “Why don’t _you_ sit and watch tellie while I go help the big boys?”

“If you try to leave, I have rights to restrain you-“ he began, and I let out a snort of laughter. He gave me an incredulous look, which I returned with a roll of my eyes, still giggling.

“You really think I’m afraid of you, Anderson? Your knees are shaking so bad I can barely hear your empty threats.”

“That’s it, come on, back in the cuffs-“ he snapped, grabbing my sore wrist. I jerked my arm from his grasp and shoved him back a step.

“Touch me again, see what happens,” I invited, my voice dangerous as my hands balled into fists. He shifted forward, and I pulled my arm back, making him flinch against the wall. Anderson swallowed hard and attempted to steel himself against me.

“T-That's it, I'm calling Lestrade-“ he spat, pulling his phone out. I had to act now; if he tipped off Lestrade, they'd intercept me. Without another thought, I rushed forward, slamming him forcefully into the wall and knocking the phone from his hands. He let out a yelp and swung an arm around to knock me off. Ducking swiftly, I gripped his shirt tight and easily maneuvered him around. As he grabbed a fistful of my hair, I surged forward and rammed him into the fireplace. His breath left him, and as he gasped to breathe, I grabbed his arm and twisted it up to the cuffs still hanging off the mantle. They snapped tight on his wrist and I jerked myself back out of his hold. He lunged for me, but was pulled short, just like I had been.

As he began to yell, I kicked the bobby pin away and gave him a smirk.

“Right, you have fun here, and I’ll take care of the important matters at hand.”

His his angry shouts echoed around the flat as I raced out of the building, not even bothering with a coat. I hailed a cab immediately and jumped into the back, shouting _Queen Mary’s Gardens_ and then sinking back into the seat. The cabbie drove fast, continuously shooting unnerved glances at me in the rearview. The cab squealed to a stop outside the gardens not ten minutes later, and was already sprinting towards the locked gates before he drove off. I launched myself at the steel bars, climbing swiftly and silently. As I dropped down onto the other side, sinking into the lush grass, I paused for a moment to catch my breath. As I slowly stood up, it dawned on me that I had absolutely no idea what to do now. 

My best bet would be to weave my way to the center of the gardens, and hope for the best. I couldn't exactly call the others and ask for a pinpoint location. So, with no other plan, and enough adrenaline to fuel a small army racing through my veins, I crept onto the nearest path and followed it deeper into the gardens. I took extra caution to stay off the gravel and tuck myself away into the shadows as I went. Though a few more paths veered left and right, I stayed straight. Getting lost was the last thing I needed. Far off, I could hear Lestrade’s voice rising up. They weren’t being particularly careful, but at least they were heading the opposite direction from me. We'd cover more ground apart like this. 

I'd trekked at least half the park before I heard a murmur of cold laughter, and I jolted to a stop. I slipped between a row of rose bushes and held perfectly still, not even breathing, as I tried to pinpoint it. The laughter came again, and my head snapped to the side. There, off to the left, about a hundred yards between the trees and bushes, I heard the murmur of a voice I didn’t recognize. My legs moved slowly, mechanically through the bushes; a wrong move now, and I could give myself away. It took nearly five minutes to creep along plants and vegetation, but my patience paid off.

As I reached the end of the tree line I’d been following, I nearly stepped into the lake; I'd made it to the center of the gardens. Slowly, I crouched down beside the trees, dangerously close to the water, keeping myself hidden in the shadows. Up on the observation hill that hung over the lake, I could see two figures standing over a kneeling body.

Sherlock. 

My heart came to a screeching, painful halt as I took in the scene. He wasn't kneeling, he was doubled over, his body swaying and trembling. One of the standing figures I named immediately: Moriarty, the lying little snake that almost got me killed. The other man beside him was a mystery, but it wasn’t hard to guess which side he was on. Moriarty was talking, but I was too far away to hear. Dropping onto my stomach, I began to crawl forward beneath the bushes. The rose thorns raked down my back and arms, catching painfully in my hair and slicing shallow marks in my skin. I stifled the whimper of pain that bubbled in my throat as a thorn ripped into my eyelid. 

_Stay calm, Lace. Slow and quiet. Sherlock needs you._

“You’ll serve as the perfect message,” Moriarty sneered to Sherlock, who didn’t even look up. Now in earshot, I shimmied out of the roses and knelt at the side of the lake again, wiping the blood from my face as I listened. “Mess with my work, and I’ll make you pay. How do you think your precious Detective Inspector will react when he sees your dead body in the morning?”

My jaw tightened; he was doing this all for a _message_? He would really kill Sherlock just to get Lestrade and Scotland Yard to back off?

“He’ll pull back, that's what he'll do. He's an idiot, but he isn't foolish. He’ll leave me the hell alone,” Moriarty hissed, kneeling to look at Sherlock in the face. “I can get my job done, and Scotland Yard will be too scared to take action. They’ll be too incompetent without their little mastermind piecing my clues together.”

The other man reached down and grabbed Sherlock by the hair, pulling his head back to make him look at Moriarty. Sherlock swayed on his knees, and would have fallen over if the man’s hold hadn’t been so strong.

"Seeing you so helpless, it's beautiful."

_You’ll pay for this,_ I snarled to myself as Moriarty gave Sherlock a sickening grin.

“Your poor Johnny boy, imagine how his heart will break. And that pretty little whats-her-name, your little servant girl. I’m sure she’ll be devastated. But don’t worry, I’ll keep her in good hands.”

Moriarty threw his hand across Sherlock’s face; the other man dropped his hold, and Sherlock slumped to the ground, unmoving. Moriarty righted himself, straightened his tie, and nodded at the man.

“Sebastian, take care of him. I’m not getting myself dirty tonight.”

With that, Moriarty turned and stalked down the hill, disappearing into the trees. The man –Sebastian- knelt down. He had spray paint in his hands, and he began to write something on Sherlock’s chest. I didn’t wait any longer. I was on my feet sprinting, pulling out my phone as I went. I hit John’s speed dial and cursed at him for letting his phone ring three times before he answered it.

“Laicee, is everything-“

“Observation lake, at the center of the gardens,” I gasped into the phone, my eyes locked on Sebastian and Sherlock as my legs carried me faster and faster. “I can get to them, but I don’t know how long I can keep the attention on me!”

“Laicee what the hell, you’re supposed to be at home-“ John all but snarled as I cut him off again.

“ _John!_ Not the time to get mad at me! Listen to me: _Observation Lake, center of the gardens, bring Lestrade!_ ”

I hung up and pocketed my phone, then focused my attention on running, careful not to slip on the slick grass. Sebastian had just tossed the can of paint aside, had just reached to grab Sherlock, when I raced up the side of the hill.

“You touch him again, I’ll kill you,” I hissed, stopping about ten feet from Sebastian. He looked over at me, slight confusion on his face. We stared at one another for several moments before he slowly got to his feet. I tried desperately to catch my breath, but the adrenaline was so powerful I couldn't calm myself down. 

“Ah," he murmured, realization sweeping over his features as he wiped his hands on his slacks. “Laicee Bennett. Could’ve sworn I had you killed a while back.”

“I’m stubborn,” I told him, nearly crying in relief when he turned away from Sherlock to focus wholly on me. Sebastian's face darkened as he took a step forward.

“And I’m thorough. I never leave a job unfinished,” he promised me; I swallowed hard, but held my ground. All I had to do was hold out until John showed up. Just buy enough time-

Sebastian was on me in a heartbeat, slamming into my chest and driving me hard into the hillside. His large, powerful hands wrapped around my neck and he leaned his weight into his hold, pinning me below him. My vision blurred and I gasped for breath, hands scrabbling desperately at his. He pressed down harder, and the edge of my vision began to darken. The last rasping breath I could take hardly filled my lungs; I felt my mind begin to slip, begin to retreat as my hands reached around me, desperate for any type of leverage

_Please_ , I pleaded as my fading vision locked onto the starry sky above us. _Let Sherlock live long enough for John to find him. Please._


	16. Anchor

The only motivation I had to fight Sebastian was Sherlock. If I died, Sebastian’s attention would fall onto the defenseless man lying a couple feet up the hill, and there wouldn’t be enough time for John to reach us. My head was so foggy I almost didn't feel my fingers brush the spray can beside me. A new burst of determination raced through my veins; I wasn't giving up yet. 

Using the little energy I’d managed to hang on to, I gripped the can tight and slammed it into the side of Sebastian’s head as hard as I could manage. He let out a pained cry and jolted away, knocking the can out of my hand as he reeled above me. Twisting hard to the side, I knocked him aside enough to pull myself out from under him, my hand scrabbling for the can.

Sebastian’s boot slammed into the side of my face and white-hot pain flashed through my mind. An involuntary whimper of pain slipped past my lips as Sebastian's hand locked onto the back of my neck, ripping me up to my feet. 

"Useless bitch," he growled under his breath, throwing me to the ground, out of his way. I tightened my jaw and spat out the blood welling in my mouth as I forced my head to stop spinning. _Not again,_ I hissed, forcing my arms under my body, making myself respond and making my limbs work like I needed them to. I’d been taken out before; I had been useless. I had been the damsel in distress, and I wasn't playing that game again. Today I’d be Sherlock’s hero.

 

Sebastian grabbed hold of Sherlock’s coat and lifted the unconscious man into the air. Sherlock’s head lulled back, and the sight of the strongest man I knew being treated as trash sent a storm of fury through me. The adrenaline began to pump again, putting focus back into my groggy mind and snapping me into the fight again. Snagging the can of spray paint, I forced myself up onto weak legs and hurled myself into Sebastian's back, knocking the three of us to the grass.

My hand gripped his short hair and forced his head back; I shook the can hard and sprayed what I could into his face. He let out a screech and knocked the can from my hand. I rolled off his back and towards Sherlock as Sebastian howled, writhing as he clawed at his eyes. I flipped onto my side, and my gaze landed on Sherlock. Sea-green eyes locked onto mine. His eyes were _open_. He wasn’t unconscious; he was very much awake and aware.

“Sherlock," I breathed, my hand instinctively reaching out to cup his bloodied face. Sherlock blinked in response, but I could tell even that took effort. As Sebastian began shove himself up, my mind flew into overdrive. I stared into Sherlock's eyes, studying his face as I began to piece together what was going on. I inched his face to the side just a bit, and the moonlight caught his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his gaze just a bit unfocused... I knew that look. 

“You drugged him-“

Sebastian's hand locked onto my shoulder and wrenched me onto my back. My knee came up to slam in between his legs, but he reached down and shoved it back with such force I slid down the grass a few inches. As I struggled to get away, something sharp jabbed into my shoulder. Sebastian shoved off of me as I scrabbled at my arm, my hand coming back with a half-full syringe. He'd already gotten some of the drug into me; I could feel it snaking through me already. Sebastian had reached Sherlock, had him by his coat again - I had to get up. I had to move. I _couldn’t_. I could hardly force my hands to slide beneath me, and I couldn’t begin to push myself up. My body was liquid; I was a useless puddle on the hillside. 

Sebastian lifted Sherlock like a rag doll. His head lulled to the side, and Sherlock’s eyes landed on me. The look in his eyes was enough to force my body into cooperation. He didn’t look scared for himself, he didn’t show any pain. All I could see was genuine concern for my own well-being. Seeing a supposedly heartless man put his last moment on earth towards caring for me was enough to give me the strength I needed.

I rolled onto my stomach and began to crawl; I couldn’t stand, but I could move, and that would have to be enough. The more I forced myself forward, the more my muscles gave way, and the more I could function. I crawled after Sherlock, mere handfuls of grass the only thing between him and myself. My body seemed to pool uselessly behind me. My legs wouldn't move, my hips wouldn't turn like I needed them to. My grip loosened, and my neck began to weaken. Sebastian straggled to the top of the overhang, pausing and panting with exertion. I didn't have much time-

Sebastian lurched forward and threw Sherlock down into the lake.

[i]No, no, NO![/i] I screamed to myself; Sebastian turned to finish me off. He faltered, not having expected me to move. My hands gripped the edge of the overhang and I stared down at the dark, rippling water. Sebastian turned, hand coming down to grab me up again, and I threw myself over the edge after Sherlock without hesitation.

I hit the water moments after he did, and only once I was submerged in the lake did I realize that should have thought my plan out a little more.

The moonlight illuminated the water around me, and I easily spotted Sherlock’s dark form, a foot or so below me. I forced my muscles into cooperation; my survival instincts kicked in, and I began to move. Slowly, but surely. I struggled downwards, my entire body twisting and turning in place of my legs, my hand gliding out in front to grab hold of his. I locked my weak fingers around his wrist and refused to let go. Mechanically, I made my arm retract and pull him to me, and only once he was secure in my arms did I struggle for the surface. My chest was burning, lungs screaming for air. Panic was seeping into my mind as I fought to hold my breath just a _little_ longer-

We broke the surface just moments before my lungs gave out. I sucked in air desperately as I forced my sluggish legs to move, hardly keeping us afloat. I pulled Sherlock’s head above the water, and I struggled to keep it there. I kept his back to my chest, and rested his head on the crook of my shoulder. His eyes had closed now, and I had to fight back the panic that surfaced in me. His chest barely moved under my arm, but it was enough to keep me going. 

_Get to the bank, Laicee, get out of the water,_ I coached my body, determined not to let us drown. I maneuvered myself onto my back, holding him with one arm and pathetically doing half a backstroke to pull me towards shore. My weak, disobedient legs needed all the help they could get. It was no easy feat. I put ‘keeping Sherlock’s head above water’ at the top of my priorities, which meant several times I elected to go under instead and get a lungfull of water just to keep him afloat. By the time we’d swam fifty feet, my drug-weakened legs were close to giving in, and my lungs burned with every ragged breath. 

From the shore, I could hear John screaming. They'd finally arrived, but so far hadn't been a lick of help. Every now and then, a flashlight flickered over the water, but we were too far out to be spotted by the weak beam. I wanted to shout for help, but all my energy was concentrated on swimming and breathing. I couldn't even mutter the string of curse words racing through my mind every time my muscles seized up or my vision began to blacken at the edges. We were nearly halfway to the shore when Sherlock spoke.

“Laicee.”

It was just one word. One half-whispered word that he breathed out as his head rolled to the side to press into my neck, but it was enough to make me kick just a little stronger, enough to make me swim a little bit harder.

_I'll keep you safe_ , I chanted in my head as I forced my legs to keep going. My whole body ached with cold exhaustion. I couldn't even drag in enough of a breath to fill my lungs, and I was so lightheaded I could barely see straight. The arm I had around Sherlock screamed in exertion as I kept as tight a hold I could. My entire body was begging me to quit. To give up and sink with the unyielding weight I was trying to carry. I had nearly given in to the demands of the drug when my foot hit the bottom of the lake. In disbelief, I gave a feeble kick, and this time the toe of my foot dug into the rocky sand below. I’d made it to the shore. I could stand.

Well, _stand_ wasn't exactly the right word. I could prop myself up in the water on two nearly-useless legs while I got my breath back. But really, that's exactly what I needed. Once I'd managed to somewhat steady my breathing, I put my back to the shore. My free arm slid around Sherlock's chest and I began to wearily push myself backwards, sliding with the flow of the waves, towards the bank. 

I could hear John closer now, his shouts more frantic and determined; Lestrade was close behind, with Donovan at his heels. Once the water dipped below my waist, it didn't hold me up anymore, and Sherlock and I slumped down into the water. The landing made enough of a splash to draw the beam of the flashlight onto us.

“Christ,” he murmured. “Over here! Greg, Sally, in the lake!”

The moment I heard him begin to race towards us, I finally gave in to the drug. My legs - which had been desperately pushing against the muddy lake bottom - buckled beneath me, and the strength of desperation was wiped aside by my relief. John had found us; John would help us now. I let my body relax, let myself recline into the water. A strong arm wrapped around my back, propping me up out of the water as my eyes slid shut. Sherlock rested in my lap, and even now that I knew we were safe, even though I knew he would be okay, I refused to let go of him.

He was my anchor, and I wasn’t ready to drown.


	17. Placing the Blame

Soft fingers brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead, and his subconscious picked up the subtle scent of honey-and-vanilla hand cream. The scent tugged at him, pulling him deep from his drugged slumber, forcing him to surface into the conscious realm. He'd recognize that lotion anywhere the moment it was presented, especially in central London. It was a rare brand, very expensive, very unusual to find anywhere but southern Germany; Munich to be specific.

Laicee’s estranged aunt had sent her a bottle every Christmas since she was twelve, and it was the only lotion she wore. It was unique to Laicee; it was comforting to Sherlock.

The drugs weighed his eyelids down, but he forced them open anyway, blinking wearily up at the one face he’d wanted to see at that moment. His room was dark, and though she was only a silhouette, it was enough. The soft glow from the hall lit Laicee’s face just right for Sherlock to see her eyes flick to his.

“Sorry to wake you,” she murmured, immediately withdrawing her hand with a sharp movement the moment she saw he’d woken up. It took him by surprise; she recoiled as if touching him caused her pain.

“You didn’t,” he assured in an easy lie. “What day is it?”

“Sunday. You’ve been out for almost twelve hours now,” she told him in a dismissive tone, grabbing a bottle of pills off his bedside table and pouring a couple out. “Here. Your tea is almost ready, I’ll be right back.”

"What-"

“They’re just to help get the drugs out of your system.”

She didn’t offer him anything else besides the curt answer she called over her shoulder, and her tone made Sherlock worry. She seemed mad at him, and for once, his mind was drawing a blank. He couldn’t quite recall what had happened before he passed out, but it was clear he’d done something to agitate Laicee. Not that this was a new feat, but something about the tone of her voice set Sherlock on edge. She returned a minute later, tea mug in hand. He took it silently and sniffed carefully, to which Laicee rolled her eyes. 

“Fresh jasmine tea, two tablespoons of milk, one spoonful of honey. Stirred long enough for the honey to melt off, and I put a couple of chamomile leaves in because I know you like them.”

Sherlock was honestly speechless; he stared up at Laicee, brows raised, a quirk on his lips. It was clear she assumed she’d gotten something wrong. Immediately she reached to take it back.

“I’ll take the leaves out-“ she started, but Sherlock gently pushed her hands away.

“No, no. It’s perfect.” He took a sip of the tea, and an actual smile came to his face. “You've made it perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she said with a small nod, turning away and smoothing down his blankets. It was if she didn’t want to meet his eyes. “Take your medicine.”

For once, Sherlock did as he was told; he’d upset her, and going against her wishes wouldn’t help him. He took the pills while he observed her, taking in all that he could gather in the dim lighting. Her clothes were lightly wrinkled and slightly unkempt; they were being worn for a second consecutive day. Paired with her half-hearted attempt to pull her hair into a bun, it was easy to deduce Laicee hadn’t been concerned with herself for a while.

As she wiped imaginary dirt off the sheets, he saw her nibbling idly on her lip. It was bad nervous habit she’d broken a while ago. The only time it came back was when her nightmares resurfaced. They went together; one was never without the other.

As she turned back to him to check he’d taken his pills, Sherlock could see deep circles beneath her light eyes, and his nightmare assumption was confirmed. She hadn’t been sleeping well. And, now that he was observing, he could tell that she [i]was[/i] mad at him. The way she held herself, arms crossed over her chest defensively and her shoulders folded forward said all that she wouldn’t. Shifting her weight sporadically as he stared at her, eyes flickering around the room, breathing slightly quickened… she was indeed very agitated with him.

“I’ve done something,” he stated, setting his tea down. Laicee bit down a little too hard on her lip and winced, stopping the habit instantly.

“John says you’re to go straight back to bed,” she ordered, clearing her voice. “You’re still weak from the attack-“

“What happened?” Sherlock interrupted. Laicee began to nibble her lip again.

“Moriarty attacked you. Left you for dead. You were drugged and you need to sleep it off,” she answered a little too curtly. She wasn’t being completely honest, but it was clear she wouldn’t be opening up to him anytime soon. “So come on, don’t fuss. You’ve been sleeping well all day so don’t break the habit. Lay back down.”

“Have you been keeping watch over me all day?” Sherlock mused, raising a brow. Laicee scoffed and turned away, a hint of irritation in her emerald eyes.

“No. I’m not waiting on you hand and foot. I just came in to give you your medicine.”

The frustration in Laicee’s voice made Sherlock swallow hard; she’d never been so cold to him before. It was as if being near him upset her, and he didn’t enjoy the thought of that. As well, he couldn't decipher if she was lying, or if she actually was only stopping in. He found his heart beginning to constrict painfully.

“Laicee, tell me what I’ve done-“

“If you don’t listen to me, I swear I’ll have John sedate you,” she threatened, and something told Sherlock she wasn’t even remotely joking. As Sherlock reluctantly slithered back under the covers, Laicee gave a firm nod.

“I’ll check on you in the morning.”

And with that, she turned on the spot and shut the door, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

***

It was very late into the night when Sherlock awoke again, the drugs having almost completely left his system by now. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his room. The only light came from the hallway; his door had been propped open ever so slightly, and a lamp in the living room had been left on. Every now and then, a bolt of lightning illuminated the area, but the storm outside kept blessedly quite.

In the soft glow, Sherlock could see Laicee curled up on his old armchair. She’d moved it from the corner of the room to his bedside, and it looked as if that had been her permanent spot. Sherlock sat up quietly, observing her. She [i]had[/i] been keeping her eye on him, and this gave him an unexplainable feeling inside of him.

Laicee was in a deep sleep, her head tucked down onto the armrest. She had a paper-thin throw blanket wrapped around her, and she huddled beneath it to keep warm. She didn’t look comfortable, not in the least, but it was obvious she wasn’t concerned about herself. His heart ached almost painfully, and it alarmed him. She was causing him this unease. The smallest gestures she performed continuously showed Sherlock how much she cared for him, and it proved to himself just how much he cared for her. The thought of having hurt one of the only people he held dear to him bothered Sherlock to the core.

As he watched her sleep, Laicee began to grow restless. She turned over on the chair and began to shiver. Her body curled up tighter, and it didn't take Sherlock long to figure out what was happening.

“No,” Laicee whispered, her soft voice cutting through Sherlock’s mind. “Don’t, I’m sorry-“

Laicee flipped herself over, and Sherlock tensed; he could see tears streaming over her cheeks, and the sound of her whimpering for mercy made his stomach turn. It took him a moment to compose control over his drug-weakened muscles, but he managed to move to the edge of the bed.

“Laicee,” he murmured. She didn’t stir. “Laicee, wake up. It’s a dream. It’s only a dream. Wake up.”

“Please no,” she murmured, quivering beneath the flimsy throw blanket. “Mum, please, don’t do this-“

Sherlock leaned forward, doing his best not to fall off the bed, and rested his hand on Laicee’s arm.

“Lace-“ he began; before he could say her name, a burst of thunder exploded overhead. Laicee shot up in the chair, flinching into the throw blanket and away from his touch. Her eyes were wide with terror and the pain of her nightmare shone in their green reflection; a tremor of fear shook her body.

Sherlock held completely still, unsure of what to do. It took Laicee several moments to compose herself, and several more to realize that Sherlock was awake and attentive. She immediately tried to force the emotion off her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, getting up and hastily wiping the tears off her chin. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’ve never dreamt of your mother before,” Sherlock noted softly, his voice nearly blending in with the storm outside. It wasn’t the best thing to say, but he had nothing else to offer as comfort, and he hoped that this would get a conversation going. Laicee swallowed hard, hesitating by the door. She couldn’t decide whether to leave and end this, or stay and pick up the conversation.

“I know that I am not the most.. _compassionate_ person,” Sherlock began, almost unsure. “But I… I would like to help you, if I can.”

Laicee still said nothing, and Sherlock could sense he was right on the edge. In a moment, her decision would seal their relationship. Would she take his offer and open up to him, or shut herself off forever?

It was the moment that Laicee lifted her clear green eyes and met his gaze that Sherlock got his answer. The look on her face said all that he needed to hear.

“It’s my fault that you got hurt,” she said quietly, flinching as another crack of thunder exploded. “It’s my fault that Oliver is in jail. My fault that Lestrade doesn’t trust John anymore-“

“Laicee-“ Sherlock started, but then Laicee’s voice caught, and her last whimpered sentence shattered Sherlock’s heart.

“It’s my fault my mum is dead, and I wish I could trade places with her.”

Sherlock did not hesitate as he shoved his blankets aside. He forced himself to the edge of the bed and then up onto his feet. For a moment, he swayed ominously, but the painful honesty in her words was enough to force him forward. When he reached her, he said nothing; he only looked down at her with a lost expression on his face. Human emotion was not his area of expertise. He did not comfort others. He didn't care if others cried or screamed or broke down in front of him. But seeing Laicee before him, her lower lip trembling and her eyes swimming with pain, he acted on instinct rather than principle.

Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled her into his arms and held her to his chest. The moment she fell into him, she began to cry. Her sobs were silent; her body shook as she drew in shaky breaths, her tears cutting through Sherlock’s shirt. He had no words for her, so he offered her the only comfort he knew he could provide. Gently, he led her over to his bed. While keeping a hold on her, he scooted himself back onto the mattress. Mustering all of his scattered strength, he tightened his hold around Laicee and lifted her up onto the bed as well. He laid down on his side and then tucked the sobbing girl to him, his arms shielding her from the world outside.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I'll have another chapter up soon!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys would like to see, because I always take your opinions into consideration.


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